


This mess we're in

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel Talks Dirty, Confessions, Crowley and Feelings, Crowley is a show-off, Cured Crowley, Domestic Castiel, Drunk Crowley, Dubious Consent, Episode: s10e23 My Brother's Keeper, First Time, Fluff, Fuck Or Die, Hand Jobs, Happily Ever After, Human Castiel, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Massage, Rimming, Rough Sex, Rowena's Attack Dog Spell, Shotgunning, Tattooed Castiel, True Love, conversations with hamsters, crowstiel, look at their fucking love connection, they just won't stop boning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5447828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can we just talk for a moment about how Crowley LITERALLY sold his arse in Jordan to pay for a spell ingredient because Castiel BEGGED for his help?<br/>Can we just talk for a moment about how Crowley built his kingdom upon the fact that all he wants is to be loved?<br/>Can we just all give Crowley a cuddle right now?</p><p>Alternate ending to S10, wherein Castiel is finally 1000% done with existence as an angel, and decides the creature he'd most like to go under the radar with as a human is the King of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What happens in Jordan

The Continental Plaza, Amman, is a monstrous round edifice fronted by ranks of palm trees and fountains. The lobby has a double sweep staircase with curling white iron railings, the only scrolling detail in the blaze of angular white. Everything here is white. The walls, the deep leather couches, the immaculate linen on the king-size beds, the marble floors that echo his footsteps back to him. In the middle of that expanse of marble lobby floor stands a man in black: the only punctuation in that pristine expanse. The man turns and spots him, smiles with his mouth and extends a hand in greeting. “Am I to assume you’re my host for the evening?”

“My King?” The man in black nods, his smooth smile notching up a little. “Yes, sir, I am your host. You may call me Shahnaz.”

“Crowley.” Crowley nods back. He’s elegant and sleek, confidence – real or cultivated – fairly emanating from him. But his tone of dress makes him stand out, draws the eye, in a way that makes him at once unique and also strangely vulnerable. Like he can’t hide. _And so he can’t._ Shahnaz smiles, in a way he knows will appear appeasing.

Crowley leads into the elevator, even though he’s probably no clue what floor the suite is on, and Shahnaz presses the button for the penthouse. They don’t speak: there’s no call for small-talk here and the business transaction they have to discuss is for nowhere but the guaranteed secrecy of the state suite. Instead, he watches their reflections in the mirrored elevator walls. Crowley’s eyes are on him, piercing but unreadable, that same little cocky half-smirk that could so easily become infuriating playing about his mouth. They look so different. Shahnaz stands a good head taller, slimmer and of an appearance that would suggest him a good twenty years the king’s junior… appearances. He wonders which of them is actually the elder. Why Crowley would choose such a vessel – well, unusual as it is, the ‘why’ is quite obvious: he’s handsome and commanding and superior and, oh, Shahnaz is going to enjoy this very much indeed.

“Nice place. Understated. I like it.” Crowley accepts the offered glass of whiskey, sniffs it just once and then sips. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows dusk is just tipping into a pink sunset, the lights winking on in a gleaming domino topple down the highways and streets, the terraces of square white buildings stacked into the distance like Lego bricks. One the horizon, the Jordanian flag atop its towering flagpole is motionless. A still night. For now. Crowley turns back to him and smiles, pleasantly. “Now, about our little deal…”

“The piece of the Golden Calf.”

“You have it?” His voice and eyes ask ‘where? Let me see?’

Shahnaz lowers his chin politely. “First, the matter of payment…”

“First, let me see the goods.” Voice light, but the warning there. Shahnaz tries very hard indeed to keep his expression in check. He nods.

“Of course, Your Majesty.” He crosses to one wall, touches a seemingly random spot, where a hidden panel clicks out, seamlessly. He retrieves a bundle, wrapped in white silk.

“Ah!” Little patch of darkness, adrift in all this purity. So very _damn_ sure of himself. The king rewraps the chunk of gold and tucks it away in the inside pocket of his jacket – he holds out a placating hand when Shahnaz coils to spring, “Now, now. I am nothing if not a man of my word. So,” he cocks his head to one side, fixing Shahnaz with those bright smart eyes. “Payment. What shall it be? A favour?”

“With respect…”

“Not even a really big one?” His smirk is slanted. He waves a hand. “No, that’s perfectly alright. What’s your fancy, then? Money? Power? Longevity? Souls? Name it. Although, if you don’t mind, I am on rather a tight time schedule here.”

“I will not keep you long. And it will not be more than you can afford.”

“Pleased to hear it.” Crowley sounds amused. “What, then?”

“Two things. One, an answer. A single answer.”

Suspicion, then. Immediate and sobering. He’s not King of Hell for nothing, evidently. “And..?” Crowley prompts.

“And if you will permit me…” Shahnaz licks his lips; he can’t help it. “To touch you?”

Crowley’s smile spreads like honey. “Well, usually I’d insist you at least buy me dinner first, but as I said – time constraints. But first – this question?”

“Of course, of course, sir. It is merely,” Shahnaz can’t wait: he’s shrugging out of his suit jacket, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his shirt sleeves, and Crowley is watching him, a detached sort of mixture of amusement and bored lust flickering across his face, “Why do you want The Calf?”

“Is this a trick?”

“No, Your Majesty. A direct question. The only one I require an honest answer to.”

“It’s for a spell.”

“A little more detail, perhaps?”

“You’re bound by confidentiality. Remember that. We have a deal.”

“Of course.”

“A spell to remove the Mark of Cain from one who bears it.”

Shahnaz bows his head, closing his eyes briefly to disguise the shiver that runs through him. “My thanks. And now…”

“And now?” Crowley raises one suave eyebrow.

 

Watching him strip, Shahnaz has time to regret that this isn’t just a simple physical transaction. The demon king sheds his jacket, folding and smoothing it carefully, draping it across the back of a chair. He raises his chin and smirks, his dark eyes never leaving Shahnaz’s face, as he pulls free the knot of his grey silk tie and drapes that over his jacket. He inclines his head to the side, scrutinising Shahnaz with marked curiosity that makes him swallow, hungry. Cufflinks unfastened, sleeves shaken loose, collar popped, buttons, one by one… Shahnaz takes a step forward and Crowley, understanding, takes one step backwards towards the vast snowy bed. Slips the shirt from his shoulders and doesn’t bother to fold that, throws it across the chair with the rest of his discarded clothes. The power radiates from him, the confidence, the indefatigable damned self-assurance, the _vanity_ – Shahnaz shudders with desire, closes the space between them with a few short steps, and even as Crowley’s hands move to his belt, Shahnaz’s hands descend on him. A gentle touch only, almost a caress, sweeping across wide strong shoulders, the broad expanse of his chest, tracing the nap of dark hair there, the unexpected riot of tattooed dragons.

Crowley chokes in a breath, his eyes going wide.

Of course, he knows immediately; the moment he’s touched.

“What the-?”

“It will not be more than you can afford,” Shahnaz assures him again. The illustrations on the king’s chest seem to be running, up Shahnaz’s hands, twisting in curls like vines, but white, white… the palms of his hands where they touch the skin of the demon’s vessel glow faintly blue.

“You’re a djinn,” Crowley manages to choke out, sounding every bit betrayed and full of rage.

“Close. Very close, but not quite.”

He’s trying to move. He can’t work out how this creature can best him and his mind is a maelstrom of confusion and rage and panic and swirling red smoke, the exact opposite of Shahnaz, born long centuries ago of smokeless fire. Shahnaz, reading him so easily now, smiles blissfully. “What are you?”

“I’m a sin.”

“No. The Deadly Sins were killed. I happen – happened - to know their executioners rather well, in fact.” He’s still immobilised, but he’s coherent, his panic abating as he regathers himself and plots his next move. So sure, so _confident_ he can weasel his way out of any situation.

“A different sin. Older.” He strokes Crowley’s face gently and the king, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. “The sin of Vanity. What better a custodian of The Calf, the False Idol, the apex of all vanities? I collected all the fragments I could find, from the corners of the world. It took me centuries. I bartered them so sparingly, for only the most valuable… treasure. This is the last one. But you – you are the King of Hell, _Your Majesty_ …”

“What do you want from me?” His voice is steady, imperious, but inside – Shahnaz can _feel_ it so clearly - he is terrified. It’s a heady, potent thing; Shahnaz can barely stand from it, so he pushes Crowley down onto the bed, falls down next to him, rolling over to straddle his hips. The fear is hidden behind his eyes: all Crowley will show is irritation; flawless and unbroken. Well. He can be broken.

“Nothing but what I have already asked.”

“I’ve given you what you asked.”

“Why do you want The Calf?”

“I’ve already answered that, you buffoon.”

“No.” Shahnaz leans down over him, so close he can see himself reflected in the black mirrors of his eyes. “You have not.”

“I want it for a spell.” He enunciates slowly, like he’s talking to a child. “To remove the-”

“No. Why do you want The Calf? Why are you here? Why did you allow yourself to arrive in this situation?”

“Because.” He stops, his eyes widening in realisation.

Shahnaz leans back, smiling. “Because-?”

“Because he asked me to.”

Shahnaz nods. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Who asked you to?”

“I don’t bloody think so. One question, you said. One question – that’s the agreement.”

“That is not the agreement. One _answer_ is the agreement. You have not yet answered my question truthfully, so I shall assume you need a little coaxing. Give me the answer I require and you are free to go, with The Calf,” he can’t help a smirk – perhaps the King is already rubbing off on him – “and my blessing.”

“Damn you.” He knows he’s been had, it’s simmering off him in waves. “What is this? What do you really want from me?”

“What I need to feed, Crowley. What I need to survive. _Vanity_. You have an excess, I’m sure you can spare just a little.” The demon’s face is a picture. Pricelessly aghast. Tricked into this when he’s rushing around, against the clock, guard down – why? The reason why, Shahnaz is certain, will keep him happily fed for the next twenty years. “Now, I thought that you said you’re in a hurry? Who asked you for The Calf?”

"Oh get on with it. Strip me, whip me, beat me, lick me - but for pity's sake, don't let's get all bloody confessional."

 “ _Who asked you_?”

The King of Hell flinches beneath Shahnaz’s flaming palms, the poison seeping through his skin such as even a demon of his rank cannot withstand. “Castiel. The Angel Castiel. I ordered him to beg and he begged, he begged me, so I came, and now if you don’t mind, I’ll be leaving.”

“An angel, indeed? An angel, consorting with demons. But you still haven’t answered my question. Why do you want The-”

“You repeat yourself more than sodding cable! I said-”

“Why did you order this angel-” Oh, the pulse of _feeling_ at that, “to _beg_?”

“You should know that,” Crowley manages a breathless, humourless laugh. “Pride. I wanted him to… show me due respect.”

“Try again, Crowley.”

“I wanted him on his knees.”

“Closer…”

“I _wanted_ him!” The shattered pride evaporates off him, washes over Shahnaz like clear water in a desert and Shahnaz throws his head back, purring.

“What do you want with him?”

Beneath him, Crowley tries to buck his hips, to throw him off, but the deal has him weakened, rattling towards its inevitable conclusion. “Is _that_ your game? You want something naughty to tuck away for a rainy night alone? You should have just said, pet, would have saved us so much trouble and _time_ ,” oh, the glaring emphasis on that last word. “What do I want with the Angel Castiel? Take a rain check and I’ll write you _several_ potentially best-selling top-shelf novels on _that_ topic.”

“You’re stalling, Crowley. It’s your own time you’re wasting.”

“I want him on his knees,” Crowley spits, as venomous as Shahnaz himself. “Crawling at my feet. I want to take him apart and remake him in the image of Hell. Gouge his eyes, pull his teeth, pluck his wings, crack his bones, _flay the flesh right off him and record his screams to play when I need perking up a bit_. Heaven’s mighty General! If you want vanity, dear God, you should have gone after him not me. Righteous frigging feathered _plague_ , he’s been a thorn in my side since the moment I set eyes upon him. You want to know what I want? _Revenge_. I want to make him _pay_. Reel him in like the slippery black eel he is and then betray him like he’s… like he’s…”

“Try harder, little king.”

Crowley squirms, glancing frantically from side to side as if an escape route will present itself. “I want… him… how can the likes of you understand? He’s so… he isn’t _good_. Don’t imagine for a damn moment he’s _good_. He’s _virtuous_. He’s righteous. He’s a force of nature, so much power, so much _power_ , all sealed up tight like powder in a keg, just waiting for someone to light that blue touch-paper. So mighty and so formidable and so _goddamn_ arrogant… I want to tear him down. Untouchable, irreproachable Castiel: I want him begging me to ruin him. I want to pollute his Grace for eternity with the flames of my torment, I want him choking around my name as I come in his mouth, to watch him unravel beneath me, to devour every last scrap of innocence he has, see how haughty he is stretched out shackled to my damned bed. I’d teach him about meek and mild: I’d fuck it into him - that pretty prim mouth of his, that tight little virgin arse - I’d have him docile and grovelling down on all fours, hard and desperate and spreading himself wide open for me to pound until he can’t speak for craving my cock, until he wants it, until he pleads for it, harder, faster, more, _is this what you want me to say_?” The words come out in a despairing, frustrated tumble.

Shahnaz checks his neat fingernails. He makes his voice sound as bored as he can muster. “You’re lying. It would be so much easier if you’d just tell the truth.”

Crowley is sweating now, the whorls of hair on his chest dark and damp, his eyes screwed shut as if that will protect him from the prying insight of the creature crouched above him. He’s angry and confused, and aroused from his own misleading pornographic litany: Shahnaz can feel it, the thick hard jut of his cock, pressing against the layers of his clothing where Shahnaz is still straddling his lap; he gives a good, firm wriggle to show he’s noticed, and Crowley groans. “What the Hell do you want from me?”

“Only the truth. The truth that your excess of vanity forfends you from uttering. Now - once more with feeling – what do you want with your angel?”

Perhaps it’s that wording. _His_ angel. Crowley hisses in a breath, his eyebrows drawing together, as if he’s in physical pain. “I want… I want to…”

“Go on.”

“Shahnaz.” Reasonable, now. The businessman struggling to resurface. “We had a deal. Anything, I can get you anything – a hundred conceited Trust Fund brats, just brimming with unchecked privilege; a veritable vanity buffet. So much better than this, so much _more_ -”

His beard is softer than Shahnaz expects as he grips him around the face, forces him to look him in the eye. “You said it. We have a deal. Speak.”

Crowley licks his lips, starts slowly. “Don’t accuse me of lying. I’m not. Every word has been… I do want him in my bed. In my arms.” The words sound like they’re being wrenched from him with pliers. “I want to… _curse_ this, curse _you_! I kissed him once. To seal a deal. We were… we were business partners and I tricked him into it: kisses to seal soul deals; angels don’t have souls. I just wanted to… spoil him a little. Take the shine off him. But he was so… he was so _chaste_. So flaming _staunch_. He believed so utterly that what he was doing was right, and that kiss - his lips - like a glimpse into Heaven. He’s been in my bloody head ever since, in my… I want to kiss him for real. I want him to _want_ to. To feel his lips on mine, to hold him in my arms – he makes me want to _sleep_ for pity’s sake, just so I can dream of the useless wanker.” Shahnaz smiles. Crowley is still babbling, like a bottle stoppered for far too long, all the sugar just fizzing on out, his pride draining with it. “When he’s gone, I miss him. I wonder where he is. I _worry_ about him. I get jealous – I _never_ get jealous – I want him… I want him to myself. I want to sit on the couch next to him, not talking, just reading. I want to show him Glencoe at sunset. I want to watch terrible reality telly with him and play Trivial Pursuit and take him to the opera,” his voice rises, desperate volume, “I want to wear matching slippers, I want our names on a padlock on the Ponte Milvio, I want to _cook_ for him for fuck’s sake-”

“ _Why_?”

“ _Because I love him, you moron_.” Crowley yelps to a breathless, stunned silence. “I love him.”

It’s rolling off him now, in thick layers like smoke. Shahnaz’s eyelids flutter: he places his palms flat on Crowley’s chest and the light that emanates from between them chases away the shadows in even the furthest corners of the spacious suite.

“Why do you love him?”

Crowley’s words come easily, defeated, no longer even trying to save face or resist. “He is… this love is… the one pure thing I’ve felt. Ever. Alive or dead. Human or demon. The one good thing.”

Shahnaz raises his hands, the glowing light fading as contact is broken. “Crowley. You have my word that this is the last time I will ask you this. Why do you want The Calf?”

“Because I want him to like me. To _love_ me. I want to deserve him.” His voice shrinks to a humiliated whisper. “I want to be good.”

“Yessssss…” It comes out as a hiss, Shahnaz’s mouth opening wide, wider than his vessel should allow, unfurling a tongue of fire the colour of his glowing blue eyes. Crowley squints beneath him, narrowing his eyes against the brightness, until all he can do is shut them tight and let the flames lick over him, lapping up every last morsel of his spent pride.

*

They’re waiting for him when he returns. He’s determined not to let his exhaustion show, and succeeding, of course. He’s the King of Hell, he’s bloody Crowley, he just needs to keep reminding himself of that. “Why the long faces?” Castiel stands when he hears his approach, turns to face him, and inside him something plummets, something repeats _I love him I love him I love him_. Smoothly, Crowley says, “Oh, let me guess, Mother showed you her 'mustn't touch it' again.”

The look on the angel’s face is cold disdain, presumably as real as Crowley’s carefully schooled smirk is false. “Do you have the ingredients?”

 _I have them. This is for you, Cas_. Crowley places the white-wrapped bundle down on the table – his mother immediately grabs for it, but Castiel stalls her hand. Takes the bundle and unwraps it, avoiding Crowley’s eyes entirely. “The quince cost me a major IOU from a Palestinian warlock, the gold from the calf-” Castiel turns it over in his hands, an unreadable look on his face, and passes it to Rowena. “Well, let's just say I'll be hanged under certain sexual deviancy laws if I show my face in Jordan again.” Crowley says it lightly, facetiously. It’s believable. And better anything than the truth.

 


	2. The Sleeping Beauty Amendment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Crowley has gone through so much trouble to get spell ingredients, his mother goes and casts the Attack Dog spell on Castiel, ordering him to kill Crowley. How's a boy supposed to get out of a bind like that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, this is so obvious that somebody had to write it, right..? Dubious consent due to magic involvement, but hopefully not too gross or morally compromising (sorry - PWP which leads into future plot!)

“Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I could do this all day.” Crowley hisses a breath in between his clenched teeth as the Angel Castiel rams his blade into the sternum of another demon, gutting him effectively in a roar of yellow light. “More minions!”

“Sire…” says the lackey at his side, but falters and drops his glance at the fierce look he receives.

“Get some more cannon fodder in here right now, Steven, or it’s you next.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And don’t look at me like that. All I’m asking is that you hold him off until my menace of a mother is far enough away that this little,” he gestures in irritation at the scene before him, “ _conjuring_ , loses its potency. Protecting your king is an honour. Don’t make me have to remind you of that.” Behind him, the sounds of struggle as more junior employees of Hell are pushed through the door and into the path of the marauding angel. “That is, providing it _will_ wear off. Providing it won’t take the fulfilment of his order alone to break the spell. You never can tell what effect that kind of curse will have on beings of our power.” Crowley sighs and tries to shuffle his feet: no luck. “Ooh – nasty.” He winces, then nods, reluctantly impressed as Castiel takes one of his clerk’s heads off.

“I thought the spell eventually kills its victim, sire? We could just keep the angel busy until your mother’s spell destroys him…”

“Nobody’s destroying anybody,” Crowley says, sharply, and somewhat nonsensically considering the scene of carnage before him. “I’ve had quite enough of that hag – thinking she can sit me on the naughty step and take away my toys. No. She can kill the angel when _I say_ she can kill the angel.” His eyes do not falter from Castiel’s blood-streaked face. “Well, as much as I’m enjoying the entertainment, the ringside seat is starting to feel a little constrictive. I think it’s time for another time-out. Intermission.” There’s a sharp snap as Crowley clicks his fingers and the scene before him – Castiel, the cowering demons – freezes. “Can’t keep him like that forever, but it’ll give me some time to think. Steven,” he glances to the demon at his side. “Confiscate his blade. And fetch me the rat.”

 

It's interesting, both of them stuck there, unable to move. A little scary because even with his angel blade duly removed from his still-clenched fist, Castiel glaring murder at him with those bloodshot eyes is rather... intense. Intense in a way that gives Crowley just a little tickle in his bedroom places: he's quite used to all manner of beings wanting to savagely off him, but there's a little something extra in the angel's bewitched stare that is distracting him seven ways to Sunday.  
"Ah, thank you." He scoops the coral-bedecked hamster from his lackey's careful grasp and shoos him away, for all the world like he's not frozen to the spot less than two metres away from a super-being intent on sinking its teeth into his throat.  
"Olivette. Long time, no squeak. A little chat, if we may? Yes, you surmise correctly: the Whore of Badenyon.”

The hamster raises her nose, looking up at him with unnerving intelligence in her little black eyes. She gives a series of little squeaks, barely audible, and Crowley inclines his head. “Well, yes - your help would be much appreciated, actually. I'm a little stumped and you are after all more familiar with the magic of the coven...”

The squeaks are more insistent in reply. They sound almost annoyed. Crowley pastes on his most affable expression. “But a very _nice_ cage - come on - you have a _wheel_...”

The answering squeak makes him recoil a little, frowning. “Well, ‘go screw yourself’ sounds rather rude as it happens, not to mention unwise, considering you're currently not much bigger than my pinky finger. Don't forget - I could have crushed you.”

The hamster shakes herself in his palm, apricot fur ruffling up in hackles on the back of her neck. More squeaking. Crowley sighs. “Well that's the thing - _could_ I have turned you back? Look at me! Her magic is just too…” He pulls a face. “Well, let's say, I'm unfamiliar. And I don't have time to bone up, as it were. Tell me what you know, and we can cut a deal.”  
It’s obvious he has the rodent’s interest. Crowley leans his head in closer to the little creature in his cupped palms. “The kind of deal where you clue me up on how to free myself, dog-whisper Fido over there, and then I go after mummy direst and exact delightful revenge for the both of us. Sound tempting?”  
A single, decisive chirrup. Crowley gives a little smile. “Good. Now we're cooking with gas.” But his face falls again immediately at the hamster’s next utterance. “What do you mean, it can't be broken?”

Olivette’s little paws stroke across her whiskers. Her next series of chitters have Crowley starting to look impatient. “Yes I've seen Sleeping Beauty. It can be changed, how exactly?” He sighs again at her response. “I will be the judge of if I'll like it or not. Olivette. Spill.”

The hamster sits back on her hind legs. What she says makes Crowley’s eyebrows raise up very high indeed. He clears his throat, swallows, quickly, immediately composed again. “Oh.” Carefully controlled disinterest. “Is that so. Well. I suppose, needs must... How do I accomplish these...” He clears his throat again, “ _amendments_?”

If hamsters could roll their eyes, Olivette would be rolling hers right now. Her chirps take on a strange tone, as if she’s somehow squeaking a different language. Crowley listens intently, and then he nods. “Steven!”

The lackey is immediately there, slightly breathless, at his side. “Sir?”  
  
“Take her away. Extra sunflower seeds. And get out of here,” Crowley glares first at Steven and then at the frozen montage of angel-bait scattered around the throne room floor, “the lot of you. See they’re removed. _Now_.”  
  
“Sir..?”  
  
“There's a... _solution_ , shall we say. _Presenting_ itself. I require some courtesy privacy for the angel. He's about to act somewhat out of character. More so than he already…” Crowley glances over again at Castiel’s frozen bloody rage-face, and the words sort of die on his lips, “… _yeech_.”

“Right away, Your Majesty.” Steven gives an obsequious little bow, hurrying to touch the inert demons one by one on the shoulder and dragging them, dazed, towards the exit. The huge doors boom as he closes them behind him, and the throne room is dropped into sudden, echoing silence. It is… Crowley tips his head back to look up at the ceiling. Festooned with cobwebs; he really must have somebody dust that. If any of them survive. The roof looks strangely higher than usual, the walls further away, the whole chamber more vast and echoing and lonely than he remembers it ever being. "You better not be double crossing me, rodent," he whispers, to himself. Then, taking a deep breath, “Somnus fiat actio.” A shudder runs immediately up his legs, the feeling of locked joints loosening, so that he staggers and almost falls. Pacing quickly, he can walk a good three metre diameter before he's met with a buzzing wall of magic. Crowley raises one eyebrow. "So far, so peachy. Now, for you, kitten." Castiel, still glaring, statue-still. Crowley licks his lips. “Sit veniat mors factus libidinis.” He snaps his fingers. "Bibbity Bobbity boo," he murmurs.Then he clicks his fingers once more, releasing the freeze-hold.

Castiel’s face changes. No less starving, worryingly, but a different expression. Crowley grimaces, gritting his teeth. Braces himself as the angel runs at him, speed no less than before, and tackles him, his back slamming against the solid pane of magic that marks the limit of his movement. For a second, Crowley thinks it’s not worked – the Rat-witch has tricked him, he’s still going to die. And the angel's fingers are around his throat, grating voice biting out his name... a thumb strokes firmly over his pulse point. Crowley squints one eye open.  
"Crowley. I can't... stop…" Oh, but he can feel every ounce of effort in that strained voice, the willpower holding back the tide, so plain in the painful clench of that chiselled jaw, lust-flooded eyes bleeding just inches from his. "I _want you_.” Oh, the punch of those words coming from that mouth, even if the motivation is manufactured.  
"You can have me.” Crowley’s voice cracks around the words. His mouth feels very dry. “But go easy on the threads, sweetheart - I've only just had this suit made."  
The angel letting go is like a dam breaking. Crowley gasps, the wind knocked out of him as he's slammed up against the invisible wall at his back. Lips and teeth at the crook of neck and shoulder, hands clawing at his hips so desperately that he lets out an undignified grunt of panic (he wasn't kidding about the suit) and scrambles with his own belt before anything gets torn. A painfully rampant erection grinding against his thigh and a painfully aroused voiced grinding in his ear, "I want you I want you I want you," over and over, his distress all too evident and Crowley feels a bitter twinge of regret that this is less than consensual on the angel's part, but it has to be better than dying, surely.  
All the times he's imagined this, and there have been a _lot_ of times, there's usually been more rose petals and champagne and, well, choice - but he's a demon after all, he likes a bit of rough and tumble, and hard and dirty certainly gets the job done. He'd like to pull him in closer, but Castiel still looks just as inclined to bite as to kiss, teeth clenched in an agonised doubtful rictus even as his hips thrust, all clumsy wanton, like he's so eager to get off he's forgotten the little details like the necessity of undressing first. "Crowley. I can't stop." Oh, that pained pleading begging...  
"It's OK, it's OK." _I don't want you to_. Why’s he trying to soothe him? Perhaps he should be more proactive, show his willing, but the angel is hardly giving him opportunity, the way he's being manhandled, sandwiched between a tingling force-field of spell-casting and an overwhelming press of hands and lips, roaming him, it feels, everywhere at once. Crowley’s a handsome bastard and he knows it, is well used to admiration, but he still can't ever remember being looked at with quite the ravenous naked lust that Castiel is gazing with now, making him feel unfamiliar heat all over, centring in his chest, a sick-fluttering-want of a feeling. What Castiel so evidently lacks in experience, he more than makes up for in enthusiasm. Shaking hands fumble Crowley's shirt, give up and tug - Crowley feels the give and rip, buttons scattering, rebounding (interesting, that) off the cage of magic enclosing him, the rending of fabric under angelic strength – lucky they’re both preternaturally resilient, or this roughness would be agony.One slender hand finds its way inside his shirt to stroke up across his chest, thumb grazing one nipple and Crowley squeezes his eyes shut and swallows, the scrape and suck at his throat more insistent and then his trousers and underwear are being harshly, perfunctorily tugged down, and he finds himself spun around and forced onto his knees, back arching, hand finding his own straining length and tugging as the fat blunt head of the angel’s cock slides in the cleft of his arse, bumping against his tight entrance as he ruts blindly. "Easy, kitty-cat," it pops out, breathless, before Crowley can help it. It's not that he's not enjoying himself (more than he strictly should be) not that he objects to a nice bit of burly domination, but he's not quite used to not being the one in control, even when he's on the receiving end, to being so totally overwhelmed, and damn - he feels him, his still-clothed weight, draping warm and solid across his back - the angel is _strong_. It’s a good job Crowley likes it rough. He lets out a surprised little hiss of breath between his teeth as he feels that righteous, avenging angel, hard and wet with his own desperation, thrusting unfocused between his spread thighs. "Slow down, Romeo."  
"I can't... I..."  
"Here," Crowley reaches back with one hand, lining him up and wincing as the tip of him pushes in dry.

"Don't..."  
"Hrmmm?"  
"I'll hurt you... I don't want to hurt you..." It's cut off by a helpless groan as he inches in further and Crowley clenches his teeth and wills his suddenly uncooperative vessel to just go along with the fun. "Don't flatter yourself, darling, you're not _that_ well-endowed."  
"Crowley..." His voice sounds, sin help him, so beautifully broken by desire.  
"Harder. I'm not made of glass." Crowley pushes back, and the answering moan of blissful relief as his ever-reliable meat-suit yields and Castiel pushes in to the hilt is almost enough to make Crowley shoot his load right then and there.  
It's uncomfortable and awkward and hot as perdition: iron grip on his hips as he's piston-pounded harder than he can remember in all his long centuries, the kind of feral rutting you don't sit down after for a week... It could well just be the spell, but something makes Crowley think it isn't: if he expected - fantasised, at length - Castiel to be a shy and demure lay, for someone with such (he would wager his kingdom on it still) inexperience, he fucks like porn. Or at least, like somebody who learned to fuck from academically observing porn. It's an affecting notion: Crowley arches his back and groans, half pain and half pleasure and all satisfaction. And when the angel rocks forward and he feels teeth at the nape of his neck, the groan turns into helpless moaning that borders on pathetic. And something happens. The hard controlling grip on him relaxes. He thinks for a split second that Castiel is finished, but it's not that. The breathing above him slows, deepens and the frantic thrusts do too - slower, deeper, a roll instead of a snap of hips. Castiel makes a new noise, something between a whimper and a sob, all breathless and keening and Crowley, confused, pushes backwards impatiently and receives for his trouble a hand sneaking round to wrap tightly round his twitching neglected hard-on. Crowley makes a strangled sound of surprise, but recovers instantly. It's a nice new development. He thrusts forward into a lovely tight grip, backwards, impaling himself on that delicious length, manages to just about check himself from purring smugly. The hand bruising fingerprints into Crowley’s hips slides around, arm circling his waist, as Castiel rocks his hips forward, buries himself fully, a long low rumble of a moan escaping him that makes every hair on Crowley’s vessel stand on end. This isn’t what he was expecting: a bit of cheery brutal doggy-style on the throne room floor and then all cured and off the bugger presumably flies, but no – Castiel’s breath stirs at the nape of his neck, his hips circling slowly, filling him absolutely. Crowley’s eyelashes flutter, his eyes rolling back. It’s just the right side of painful; sore from the sudden intrusion, but gentle now, almost too gentle – he tries to pull away, push back, set a rhythm, but Cas has him, captive, and is giving up only shallow, firm thrusts, breath quickening, becoming laboured. "I'm close..." A husky whisper. Crowley wraps a hand around the hand that's gripping him, urging it faster.  
"Then give me all you've got, love."  
An incoherent noise, then, "Yes", urgently, and he's speeding up again, sloppy and gasping and absolutely disarming. " _Yes_ ,” again - a begging breath, rapturous as prayer, a heartbeat pulse where their bodies connect and Castiel stiffens and then sags above him. His grip slackens too and Crowley tightens his own, urging him not to lose pace, bringing Crowley off to a shivering climax, pattering onto the stone flags.

It goes straight to his knees. Crowley slumps forward on the cold floor, pillowed on his folded arms, breathing hard. Castiel is still a fevered, solid weight at his back, not moving – which could mean several things - but breathing, which is good. Crowley exhales a long, satiated sigh, basking in a final few seconds of fizzy afterglow, before the _feelings_ set in, that niggling little horribly human worry that’s nipping at his conscience. “Castiel… are you alright?” _Conscience_. He shouldn’t even have a bloody conscience. He feels the angel raise his head a little, then lay it back down upon Crowley’s shoulder. The way he moves, as if he’s trying to get comfortable, feels unfairly like he’s _nuzzling_ at the exposed skin there. With some effort, Crowley rolls over onto his back, turns his head on the hard cold stone to look at him. Castiel is a mess. Even more so than usual. His thick hair is crazily ruffled, his face covered in blood, tracks streaking his cheeks, although his eyes are clearing. His cheeks are flushed pink, his lips plush with it. Even fully clothed as he still is, there's no question as to what he's just been doing: Crowley feels a helpless after-twitch at the sight.

“You altered the spell.” Castiel’s voice is gruff, breathing heavy, but he sounds more knackered than suicidally humiliated. “Why did you do that?”

“You were going to kill me, or die trying. It seemed like the preferable alternative, for both of us. Well… certainly for me.” He tries to inject some smugness into his voice, but the tumult of distressing human-like _blech_ inside him makes him sound merely miserable. The languid drape of angel limbs hasn’t moved, their legs tangled and sprawled. Either Cas is truly exhausted, or he doesn’t seem in too much of a hurry to extricate himself. Crowley asks, cautiously, again, “Are you _certain_ you’re alright now?”

“The spell wore off.”

Crowley lets out a short little humourless laugh. "Well that _was_ the aim of the exercise, Captain Obvious."  
"No..." The angel is looking shifty now, averting those big baby blues. "It wore off... about twenty minutes ago." Crowley feels his eyebrows raise, high, momentarily lost for words. Another appallingly, unfairly human emotion checks into the party in his chest. "It seemed... impolite to stop." Castiel mutters. The embarrassment in his tone is worth a thousand deaths, any amount of sacrificed vanity. Crowley rolls over onto his side, propping his cheek on his hand, to stare at him, and the angel's gaze focuses immediately on his chest, between the torn halves of his shirt. Castiel catches his bottom lip between his teeth, oh so briefly: that face, always as easy to read as a Times Square billboard. He says, "You seemed to be enjoying yourself."  
"And here I was, all prepared to beg your forgiveness for subjecting innocent little you to such a creative amendment to my dear mater's gift." Castiel apparently can't hold Crowley's level gaze. Crowley could swear he's... "Are you _blushing_ , Sparkles?"  
"I am not blushing."  
"You're not exactly traumatised either." Crowley can’t keep the fascination out of his voice.  
"It was... not unpleasant."  
"Well I do have an irresistible arse, if I say so myself." Crowley allows himself a cautious smirk. "So, dare I ask, how was it for you?"  
He's still looking anywhere but Crowley's eyes. "A little... undignified." Does Crowley actually detect a hint of _amusement_ beneath the grave sincerity? "But from my observations, sex usually is." Crowley pulls a concessionary face; the idiot has a point. "Being compelled to fornicate with you due to your mother’s dark magic was... better than murdering you and then suffering an agonising demise."  
"Steady with the praise there, lover, you'll make a girl blush."  
"You could have just killed me. Thank you for saving me."  
"’Thank you for saving me with your astonishing sexual prowess, Your Majesty.’"  
Castiel smiles, gently, at the floor. "Don't push it." He sighs then, tilting his head and regarding Crowley curiously, meeting his gaze. It's a sudden electric intensity that makes Crowley catch a breath. "I should be dead. We should both be dead."  
"And polyester should be outlawed, what's your point?"  
"Then let's be dead."  
A strange feeling starts to form in Crowley’s gut. Something that feels a bit like… he daren’t acknowledge. "I don't quite follow."  
"Come away with me. We can disappear."  
"We can't disappear. Not sure if you've noticed, pet, but we are both conspicuous and dare I say, popular. If not always for the 'party invites' reason..."  
"We can try."  
Crowley leans up on one elbow, scrutinising the angel's candid face for any trace of duplicity.  "Extending the Sleeping Beauty metaphor, are we, Aurora?" Castiel frowns, looking confused, but Crowley just shakes his head, lips quirking into a smile. One hand reaches out, across the space between them, but Castiel doesn't even flinch, as Crowley uses his thumb to gently wipe away the tracks of dried blood beneath Castiel's right eye. That sincere clear gaze stays on him, more trusting than surely it should be, and the path of Crowley's thumb somehow turns into a caress down the angel's cheek. When he leans forward, Castiel’s lips against his are sweet as sin.


	3. Deliver me from goodness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sit," Crowley says, surprised by the gentleness of his own voice, and Castiel mutes the TV and swings his legs off the bed, hesitant steps to the chair, where he sits and loosens his tie a little more, his movements trance-like. “Are you certain about this?”  
> Castiel doesn’t look certain, not at all, but he raises wide eyes to gaze at Crowley, standing there over him with angel blade raised, and gives a little nod.

THEN:  
  
He hadn't meant to kiss him. He was just right there, his flushed pink lips parted, and it had happened. After the pounding the angel had so vigorously administered to him, it should have been neither here nor there, a meaningless additional trifle, but... Crowley leaned back and Castiel was looking at him curiously, a mixture of understanding and apprehension dawning on his face and Crowley had the sudden urge to apologise. It was too raw. Too dangerous. Too...  
"If we were human we could disappear."  
"In case you hadn't noticed, feathers, neither of us are remotely so."  
"We both have been."  
"Human _adjacent_ ," Crowley corrected him on reflex. He still couldn't take his eyes off those lips. The stone flags beneath him were starting to chill him through, but he didn't want to move, wanted to eke this moment out for as long as he could manage, a cold discomfort to keep him warm on lonely future nights. "And would you really want to go back?"  
"Yes." Castiel's brows drew together, gently. "Wouldn't you?"  
Crowley opened his mouth to say 'no'. Humans were pitiful, powerless, pestilent. They had body odour and flu and sympathy. They had to poop and they couldn't drink as much whiskey as they wanted without paying the ludicrously arcane price of a hangover. What actually came out was a sigh. 'He's your boyfriend' he'd once spat out at Castiel. He'd only now admit it to himself, but he'd been jealous. Not just of the angel's closeness to Dean bloody Winchester, but of Squirrel himself. His humanity. The way he was allowed to fuck up over and over again and still receive forgiveness, even if he had really less excuse for bad behaviour than a demon merely following its nature. He only realised now that Cas felt the same: _that_ was the root of their silent squabble over that stupid flannel-clad mud-monkey; they both wanted to _be_ him. An epiphany. Crowley worried at his lower lip, thinking. He saw it now, brutally clear. He and Cas, they were the same. Both treated like dirt on repeat by those they held dearest. Including each other. It struck Crowley with glaring clarity that the way to not let this creature down was to simply... not let him down. So simple, so far from easy. His kingdom, Hell, his life had been built on foundations of pre-emptive betrayal - stick that knife in quick, before it's stuck into you. To throw all of that away, everything he'd built through centuries of blood and anguish and suffering and flame, to give all of that up on something as flimsy as a promise, to render himself voluntarily powerless and vulnerable and _human_ for pity's sake... the level of trust that would take. Inconceivable. Unaskable. But someone, at last, was asking. _Come away with me_. It was hardly a marriage proposal; the angel probably saw him as nothing more than a convenient companion in such an impossible scheme, the only person he knew with the required occult know-how who’d actually agree to participate in such a blasphemy, but even so...  Castiel was still looking at him, unmoving. Crowley's left leg, under the draped weight of the angel's right one, was starting to go numb. "I'm listening," he said.  
  
NOW:  
  
Three days in this motel feels like a lifetime. His visit to the Middle East and the events of his former throne room seem a hazy improbable memory. _Former_ throne room. What the blazes is he doing? What are they _both_ doing?  
_'I can't just up and quit. I have responsibilities! Pets. Paperwork. I gave my word to a hamster that I'd kill my mother.'_  
'Since when have you cared about your word?'  
'Angel, that hurts. I've never once broken my word.'  
And so he hasn't. And it's landed him here, in this dismal little dive with its twin beds and dust-furred blinds, the walls and ceiling magically plastered with angel and demon warding that will almost certainly lose them the deposit when they check out, if it turns out he no longer has the spellcasting clout to put the room back the way it was again. Crowley wishes that Winchester warding was a thing: but he'll have time to work on that, afterwards. He'll still be a powerful magician, after all, he _will_ , even if he's... if he's... Every time the doubts set in, which is roughly seven times per hour since Castiel pitched his genius plan to him, he has to look at the angel to remind himself why he's agreed to this insane scheme. Right now, the angel is lying full length on the opposite bed watching a marathon rerun of The Golden Girls on the crappy little motel television. Even sprawled out on a bed watching TV he's still wearing his trench-coat and his shoes, no human discomfort or needs yet assailing him. The screen casts dancing light across his face and as Crowley watches unheeded, his full lips soften into a half smile at some inane scripted joke and Crowley's chest clenches. A kingdom for this? Seems more than fair.  
_'I can't do this alone.' Castiel had said. 'We can help each other.'_  
'Suicide pact, you first?' Crowley had replied, and Castiel had frowned again, entirely missing the sarcasm, that familiar, irresistible expression of misunderstanding.  
'Crowley, this isn't suicide. This is salvation.'  
Even remembering those words makes Crowley feel sick. The excited, terrified, roller-coaster-queue type of sick. _'Do you know what you're asking of me?' He'd said. And Castiel had nodded, gravely, had whispered, 'yes.'_ __  
  
"It's time."  
Cas looks up, quickly, from the screen. "You've decided?"  
"I have."  
"You'll go through with it?"  
"Yes."  
"All of it?" Castiel's eyes are wide and, Crowley could swear, anxious. He’s still not used to being gazed at instead of squinted at. His atrophied demon heart twists. "Yes."  
The angel nods, stiffly. "How, then?"  
Crowley indicates with an incline of his head, a chair beside the rickety little table beneath the window. "Sit down."  
"I have your word?"  
Oh God, why is this so hard? "You have my word."  
"You've never broken your word." The angel repeats it like he's trying to convince himself and that flays Crowley to the bone. He's connived, stolen, tortured, lied and murdered, but he truly has never broken his word.  
"Sit," he says, surprised by the gentleness of his own voice, and Castiel mutes the TV and swings his legs off the bed, hesitant steps to the chair, where he sits and loosens his tie a little more, his movements trance-like. “Are you certain about this?” Castiel doesn’t look certain, not at all, but he raises wide eyes to gaze at Crowley, standing there over him with angel blade raised, and gives a little nod. Crowley swallows. Cas isn’t tied to the chair, isn’t restrained at all, and that makes this so much worse somehow. His hands are clasped behind the straight wooden back, so it looks like he’s bound and something in his attitude, his demeanor, is giving Crowley horrible unbidden flashbacks to some godawful film adaptation of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe he must have watched through boredom once. This uncompromising rebel of Heaven, bold in his surrender. Aiming the blade at his throat feels wrong, and familiar, and thrilling. Cas’s eyes follow it, until he’s almost cross-eyed and that should be funny, but it’s not. He looks afraid. Crowley has to clear his throat and start again when he tries to say, “Do you trust me?” Why did he ask that? There’s a definite hesitation, and an even smaller nod. Those big eyes flicker up again, his expression almost pleading and Cas catches his lower lip between his teeth, like ‘get on with it’.

Crowley hasn’t got a vial. What he’s got is a little perfume bottle, cut-glass, antique, exquisite. A stupid final sentimentality on his part that he almost regrets now as unnecessarily soppy as he flips the little silver cap off with his thumb and stalls for a few more seconds before he unforgivably vandalises something magnificent and terrible, turns it into something commonplace and weak, remarkable and fragile and brave. There’s a ring on the cap of the bottle, so the thing can be hung from a ribbon or a chain. He thought Cas could do that, could wear it around his neck, keep it safe. Maybe add a damn bell to it like Squirrel always used to say, although he doubts that Cas will be quite so adept at sneaking up on a fella once he’s been mojo-ectomied. Crowley shakes his head, just about manages not to close his eyes as the point of the blade nicks a cut across the angel’s throat, clean but deep, dark blood welling immediately. Castiel’s eyes widen further. He looks on the verge of panic, of flight, even though this is his own idea. A few short moments more and those broken wings will be gone, maybe forever. Crowley grimaces and lifts the bottle, watches the curl of eternal blue light as he coaxes it with muttered magic into its new container. It’s over quickly. He thumbs the cap back on, arm falling strangely numb to his side and Castiel sags against the chair, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling. One drop of blood swells over, spills down into his open collar. Crowley licks his lips, throat tightening. The angel – the _angel_ , simple as blinking, isn’t an angel any more.

“Alright, love?” He tries to keep his voice soft, but the sudden tilt of power is unignorable and he’s pretty sure the man in front of him is thinking the same. Exhausted eyes open, regard him warily. Why did Crowley think they’d somehow be a duller blue? They’re shining wet and brighter than ever and it makes Crowely’s chest tighten as much as his throat. Another hesitant nod, Cas’s hand coming up as if to rub his injured neck, but stopping short, hovering, as he stares at Crowley and looks for all the world like he’s holding his breath. Crowley raises the knife again and Castiel’s eyes follow it. How many times have they tried to kill one another? And now, suddenly, the King is holding all the cards. He’s still the King of Hell. He could still take all of this back. It would be so easy to crush him, breakable little ape he now is, to drive this shiny blade through his beating bloody heart – no backsies, no second-third-fourth chance – and end this madness once and for all. The bottle of Grace feels warm in Crowley’s palm. Warm and good and pure. He could do anything to this man now, this powerless, fearless man. He could slaughter him with a gesture, he could pin him down with the slightest flick of his wrist, he could strip him and spread his legs and take whatever he damn well wants, take his revenge out on that soft defenceless hide with no resistance and no comebacks… Crowley drops the angel blade with a dull thump on the carpeted floor. His hand comes up, wraps around Castiel’s throat, and Castiel lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes slipping closed, a line of consternation appearing between his brows. When Crowley’s hand falls again, the wound slicing Castiel’s neck is healed. Crowley lifts his other hand and passes the bottle of Grace to its owner.

“Thank you.” Castiel’s voice sounds even rougher than usual.

“How do you feel?”

“Thirsty.”

“Right. Of course. Cuppa?”

“Coffee.”

“Heathen.”

Castiel throws him a glance that’s almost amused. He stares down at the gently glowing bottle in his palm, then back up at Crowley.

Watching him drink coffee is fascinating, and disgusting. Disgusting, because it’s awful cheap instant granules from the little sachets next to the kettle with the ‘Room 27’ fob fastened around the handle with a tarnished ball-chain. Fascinating for the pleasure he seems to take from it anyway, his first foray back into mortality. What a thing to want first.

“Are you hungry? You want me to go and fetch something?”

“Not yet.” Castiel shakes his head. He’s lost something, some indefinable _something_ about him, but his skin has a new kind of glow to replace it, the vital warmth of miraculous life. He’s so _beautiful_. “I’m tired.”

“Understandable. I’ll leave you alone for a while to get some rest.”

“No-” Crowley pauses. “Stay. Stay here.” Castiel pats the sofa cushion next to him and Crowley feels a little jolt.

“Fine. But I get to choose the channel.”

“OK.” The way he cosies up next to him, Crowley doubts he’ll be awake long enough to care what’s on the screen anyway. Not that Crowley cares either: he’s staring at the pictures, but all his brain can process is the dark head resting against his shoulder, the slender thigh pressed the length of his.

“Cas…”

“Mmmm?” Sleepy mumble. Crowley inclines his head, resting his jaw against the top of the head that’s lying against his shoulder. Thick soft hair tickles his nose; he inhales the scent of it, already a little in need of washing: human, perfect.

“What is this?”

“Storage Hunters.” Little more than a dreamy whisper.

“What? No, not the... _This_. We’ve, well, danced the horizontal tango in spectacular, if unorthodox, fashion. We now appear to have moved in together. It seems I’m giving up my throne in order to be your roomie in some…” _Dire downtown slum_ seems a little harsh, so Crowley lets the words hang, to no objection. Cas takes a deep breath in and shifts next to him, one arm moving to drape across his waist as if by accident. Crowley looks down at it, dumbly. He says, “We’ve not even kissed yet. Not properly.”

“Then kiss me.” Is he asleep already? Does he know what he’s saying? Crowley leans down once more, drops a kiss, painfully gentle, on his forehead. Crowley’s not even undergone his cure yet, and yet he feels like his heart is swelling in his chest, preventing him from functioning properly – he wonders for a split second if it’s somehow possible for demon vessels to suffer heart attacks, because surely this isn’t normal, this intensity of sensation that goes beyond mere physical pain. Castiel stirs beneath him. Palms wrap, warm and dry around his wrists. Castiel’s breath is coming quicker and it’s him who reaches for Crowley first, cupping his face in his hands and peering sleepily into his stunned eyes like he’s trying to read secrets there. What he sees seems to please him: he leans in, pressing their lips lightly together and something white and dazzling strobes through Crowley’s essence like magic, but older, huger, more fundamental. His lips are as soft as Crowley remembers, warm and pliant and dry. As he pulls away to take a breath, Crowley leans in, kisses him again. _Repeat. Repeat_. An endless alternating exchange of gentle little kisses until time seems to lose its meaning. Cas’s hands still cradling his face. His hand curled loosely at the nape of Cas’s neck, stroking the soft hair there – he feels a shiver, a low whimper into his mouth and Cas is the one who’s opening up first, gently insistent, angling his head and parting his lips softly so that Crowley feels the wet touch of tongue at the seam of his lips… his answering groan is taken as invitation, slipping deeper, and he lets him, sucks on his tongue, sloppy and earnest… Crowley would never have believed that a boyscout cloud-squatter could teach the King of the Crossroads anything about kissing. His technique is non-existent, but the feelings firework-ing inside Crowley’s guts… he pulls him closer, pulls him to his chest, wrapping him in his arms. There’s no slowness in their kiss now, an unbroken ebb and flow of deep wet insistent thrust and parry but still yielding, surrendering. He slides a leg between Cas’s legs and instantly Cas is pressing against him, grinding, the hard line of his cock pressing against the seam of his unflattering suit trousers, and he’s groaning into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley pulls back, only far enough to press their noses together, to see in blurry close-up the glassiness of his eyes, unfocused with arousal, the pink flush of it across his high cheekbones. He doesn’t word it, but it’s like telepathy, _touch me, please touch me, I want you to_. Crowley licks his lips; they’re tingling from the scratch of stubble. He presses them back against Castiel’s, licks at his mouth and Cas opens, lets him, natural as breathing. Miraculous. He tastes like coffee; rich and too-sweet. Crowley’s hand drifts lower, between Cas’s legs, groping for his waistband button and Cas whimpers, his head tipping back, baring his neck, hips lifting from the sofa cushions. Crowley’s lips fasten onto his throat, sucking gently enough he’ll leave no mark save the fast-fading blush as his beard scratches skin. His hand works, blindly, tugging open Cas’s pants and sliding under the waistband of his shorts. Cas gasps when that hand closes around him. His hips jerk, the muscles of his waist twitching beneath Crowley’s other palm, and he lowers his chin again, reclaims Crowley’s lips as if trying to stopper his own helpless moans. His hands tug at Crowley’s clothes, but if the will is there, he’s evidently too overwhelmed to be much practical use, and Crowley doesn’t care. He can wait. Castiel’s cock in his palm is silky hot, already slick with his excitement. He hooks his other arm under Cas’s knees, drags him to sit sideways across his lap. Arms wind around his shoulders, face buried for a moment in the crook of his neck and Crowley keeps moving his hand, concentrates on making it good, because this  complicated, drowning, freeing feeling is threatening to consume him whole. Slow, fast, slow, twist… he’s practically dripping – Crowley fidgets where he sits, and Cas fidgets in his lap too, grinding against the conspicuous erection trapped in his pants – but Crowley keeps pace, the sound of their breathing the only thing he has ears for. Quickening, panting gasps of breath against his neck as Cas bucks up into his hand. He wishes he could watch. But there’ll be time. All the time in the world. “Crowley…” Cas says against his ear, little more than a whisper. He turns his head and Cas is devouring his mouth again, no softness this time, all hard desperate thrust of tongue and scrape of teeth as his hips stutter and he shoots in Crowley’s hand, his cry swallowed up in their kiss. When Crowley pulls back, Cas is gasping, eyes dazed and Crowley kisses him again, can’t stop kissing him, on his temples and eyelids and the bridge of his nose. Crowley hasn’t even come himself but he feels dizzy like he did. In the tight space between them, Cas finds his hand, winds their fingers together, seemingly uncaring that Crowley’s are slick and wet. Then he leans back and looks Crowley in the eye and says, “Is this what being loved feels like?”

Like a punch to the guts. Crowley feels the wind knocked from him. He knows he’s frowning, he probably looks outraged, but Cas is just looking at him, expectantly, as if he’s just asked him if this is the correct recycling box for plastics, not something impossible, unthinkable. His eyes are so blue. There’s a single fallen eyelash, resting against the curve of one cheekbone. Something inside Crowley’s ribs feels like it’s breaking and his voice comes out very small. “Yes.”

Castiel lowers his gaze and smiles a tiny, pleased smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's going to be more than three chapters. It's growing exponentially: they have a lot to say and they seem to be getting increasingly soppy (no regrets.) Hope you enjoy, if you do, please stop by and say hi :)


	4. Your name is written on my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newly re-human-ed Cas gets his warding tattoos redone and starts stockpiling his own blood. It is fluffier than it sounds.

“This,” Cas says, handing the man a piece of notepad paper, scrawled over in Biro. He winces as Crowley kicks him surreptitiously on the ankle and adds, “please,” with a perfunctory flicker of a smile.

It’s been a week and he’s still not quite back into the swing of humaning.

“Just this?” The guy turns the paper over to check the blank reverse, turns it upside down, only to have Cas reach out and firmly turn it the correct way up in his hands again. The bloke shoots him a look and Crowley stifles a smirk. Cas’s face is inscrutable as the man asks, “What is it?”

“It’s an Enoch-”

“Private joke,” Crowley interjects with a charming smile. The man glances at him, looking him up and down, and Crowley can just imagine what he’s thinking. How they appear. Cas dresses like a human now - a single outfit isn't really ideal when you breathe and sweat and need to wash, so one day he came back with a bag full of thrift store clothes. Crowley had wrinkled his nose but what he'd never admit is he loves him like this. Plain black t, a little too wide around the neckline and soft grey sweatpants sitting low on his sleek hips. It's strangely touching, somehow, a precious secret glimpse, like seeing the Queen in her PJs. Will he become like that? Crowley wishes, not for the first time, that he'd brought more than one suit with him from Hell. The account under ones of his fake identities is serving them well for now, but a mattress full of cash is the immediate plan for when he's cured: eventually Hell will take serious note of his absence as more than a top-side jolly and cut him off, and whilst there's enough cash to keep them for a good while (especially whilst they're laying low in the kind of anonymous flop-house that nobody would search for the King of Hell) it won't last forever and it won't reasonably stretch to bespoke tailoring. Crowley tries to imagine himself in sweatpants and immediately gives up in horror. Maybe when he's human it'll be different. Maybe he won't care anymore. It's not really a comforting thought. But for now here they are: two middle aged guys – one in flawless tailoring, one in second-hand jersey – sitting in a tattoo parlour on a Tuesday lunchtime. The CEO banging his bit of trade, probably, marking up his territory perhaps – Crowley affords himself a smile at that little fantasy. God only knows what the bloke will make of the track-marks in the crook of Cas’s left elbow. It _is_ like the opening to a terrible joke, and Crowley wonders what the ultimate punchline will be and if he’ll still be smiling. Or indeed, alive.

“Whatever,” the artist says. He retrieves a pen from behind his ear and nods at a vinyl covered bed. “$30 flat fee and $70 an hour after that. Up on the couch.”

It’s nothing he’s not seen before by now but Crowley still has a hard time not staring when Cas is laid out shirtless in a downtown shop window. “Here. Across my ribs,” Cas says, indicating the place he’d had the angelic warding inked before; before Grace-fire had renewed his human vessel, wiping his slate blank once again. This time, it’s for keeps. The needle buzzes. There’s an addendum to the design now, the flaming pentacle of a demon ward, above one sleek hipbone. _Are you trying to say you don’t want me inside you?_ Crowley had said when Cas had suggested it, and Cas stammered out such an earnest protest he’d had to reassure him he was teasing. _I suppose I’ll have to get one of those too, now_ , Crowley had added, and the idea was so ludicrous and oddly pitiful that they’d both dissolved in laughter for a good five minutes like kids in the back row of class. It doesn’t seem quite so funny now. Crowley had come along, of course he had, for moral support (to hold his hand, really, but in the cold fluorescent light of day that doesn’t seem quite the thing to actually do, even if Cas would certainly and blithely accept it). But he doesn’t like this hulking great rocker with his undercut and his ear stretchers marking up that pristine vessel. He doesn’t like anyone but himself touching it. The words are out before he can rethink them, “Perhaps you should get my name on there too.”

The artist huffs out a little laugh that sounds a tad derisive, but Cas just smiles, and then in quick succession frowns. “I cannot tell if you are joking or not. Why would I get a tattoo of your name?”

Crowley looks, studiously unconcerned, at his nails. “Oh, I don’t know. Just so’s the next person you’re with knows I was there first.” It’s a horrifying, petulant, embarrassing thing to say. Why did he just say it?

“The next person? I don’t understand. Why would I be with someone else?”

Crowley’s stomach flips, slowly. “It’s just what people do.”

“We are not ‘people’.” _No. We’re not. Not even when we are_. Cas tilts his head to one side. “Crowley, do you want to be with other people?”

“No.” No hesitation, it just pops out. “No, I don’t. Not ever,” he says softly. And Castiel’s face lights into the kind of grin that Crowley hasn’t yet seen on him. The tattoo artist clears his throat, conspicuously, and when Crowley looks, he’s eyeing them with an expression of undisguised incredulity.

“All finished up here. Unless –“ he addresses Castiel, “You want his name on you, or what?”

“Crowley?”

 _Oh Lord. He’d actually go through with it_. Crowley shakes his head quickly. “No. Bloody Hell, I was joking.”

“Alright-y then. Let’s wrap this up. Pay, and aftercare, at the counter, then you guys can go get a room.”

Crowley is so eager to do just that, that he doesn’t even consider admonishing the bloke for his dreadful rudeness.

Back at the room, Crowley makes coffee again, because it’s impossible to get decent tea bags at any local stores and you’re supposed to have a cup of sweet tea after things like tattoos, aren’t you? After tattoos, and blood donation, which Cas has also been doing more than his fair share of lately. When he sits down and hands the mug to Cas, he takes hold of his left wrist, pulling his arm out straight to run a finger gently over the bruises on the inside of his elbow. The blood of a righteous man - who more righteous than an ex-angel? It was like they were meant to save one another, Cas had said, and Crowley had kept any reservations he had silent. Eight hours. Countless doses. Moose had been stupid, had weakened himself, charging in with no forethought as usual: Cas has been stockpiling his own blood in the little fridge in their room since he was strong enough following the removal of his Grace to attempt it. No stipulation in the spell that it has to be fresh blood. And the thought of the landlord's face if he were to find the room those two weird guys are sharing plastered with warding sigils and a fridge full of Rh-null has given Crowley countless private chuckles. Watching Castiel extract said blood, however, for some reason has not. “Is it sore?” He runs his thumb again as gently as he can over the raised vein there, watches in fascination as it depresses then plumps up again at the stroke of his touch.

“A little.” Castiel shrugs, takes a sip of coffee that must be nuclear-hot still. “The tattoo is worse.”

“Have a rest for today.”

“The sooner I collect enough, the sooner we can cure you.” He tilts his head. Crowley wonders if he thinks he’s stalling. Crowley wonders if, deep down, he _is_ stalling.

“It’s not so urgent you need to hurt yourself.”

“I have two arms, you know.” He’s taken all his samples from his left arm, because he’s useless at operating a syringe with his left hand and, after all his centuries of professional torturing, Crowley for some insane reason just can’t bring himself to do it. Of course, you can extract blood from any part of the human body: Crowley knows this fact too well, too, and it’s another thing from his glorious, gore-drenched past that for some reason, _some reason_ , he suddenly can’t bring himself to even glance sideways at. He’d always meant to corrupt this angel; it's been on his to-do list for years...

“You do? I hadn’t noticed.” Crowley winds fingers through the fingers of Castiel’s left hand, brings it up to brush a kiss across the knuckles. When he reaches for his right, Cas holds it away, eyes half lidded, lips half-smiling.

“Don’t make me spill my beverage.” Crowley takes the mug from him, sets it down on the rickety table and makes another play for his hand. Cas says, “Do not think I don’t recognise a distraction tactic when I see it.”

“Is it working?” Crowley’s voice is muffled against the inside of one smooth, tanned wrist. In answer, he feels the other hand alight, light as a bird, on the nape of his neck. Fingers stroking little circles there. Crowley shivers as the thought strikes him that Cas is not the one being corrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reading this, and especially those who comment, you are my favourites <3


	5. A demon, falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time Crowley undergoes the demon cure is a lot fluffier than the first (but didn't make me cry like the canon version did :p)

The church is spectacularly derelict. Castiel assures him it's still consecrated, although Crowley isn't so convinced Cas can sense these things anymore. It’s been three weeks. Three weeks of Crowley not skipping out. He still seems sure though. Crowley right enough feels the shiver of unwelcomeness as he enters, but... again, he can't be 100% that's not just his own subconscious screaming 'run, run while you can'.

Debris litters the nave from where the roof is falling in and there's a ghetto blaster propped in the font that at some point has been set on fire, melted solder and wires pooling on the blackened sandstone. Torn pages are everywhere. It looks more like the site of a demon frat party than a demon purification. Cas surveys the scene placidly, but Crowley can definitely sense his quiet distress and he's certain he's not imagining _that_. Stopping next to him he places a hand on his shoulder: Cas doesn't say anything but Crowley feels him calm a little, taut muscles relaxing. "When we're done we can tidy up a bit. If you like." Cas shoots him a disbelieving look - _when we're done, manually_ , not even _now, by magic_ \- but still doesn't say anything.

They cuff him to a chair and Crowley is suitably on edge with nerves he even forgoes the obvious 'kinky' jibes. It's ridiculous really - if he can't break the enchanted cuffs, one moderately energetic yank would snap the rickety chair arms like matchsticks, but it feels sort of anchoring anyway, and it's not like he's going to try to escape. Not like last time. Crowley wets his lips with a nervous tongue. Still doesn't go the cheap comment route even when Cas unknots his tie and undoes rather more shirt buttons than strictly necessary to bare his neck. A palm lingers on the side of his face, gently stroking the coarse hair there. Reassuring him. Crowley exhales a long shuddering breath: _now_. It's now. No going back.

He watches Cas's back as he works, methodically, crouched over the cooler they brought to store the blood.

"Are you sure?" Cas turns, hypodermic in hand.

"No. I've changed my mind. I'm backing out and returning to Hell." Crowley says, and Cas narrows his eyes, then sighs and rolls them. A month spent with Crowley is a crash course in sarcasm.

"You can still back out. If you want to."

"And listen to you grouse at me?" Crowley leans his head to the side, offering his neck. "Let's get this over with." But he stalls Castiel's hand, gentle clutch around his wrist. He knows how pleading his face must look. "Cas... Do you really think this will work?”

“Yes. There’s no reason why it wouldn’t work. It worked on Dean. It worked on you, before.”

“Nobody would ever let me change. Every time I’ve ever tried to do something…” He can’t help the grimace, even now, “something good, something _caring_ , what do I get? Suspicion. Accusations. Abuse. Betrayal. When I do something evil though, well, that’s acceptable, that’s _me_. People _approve_ , because I give them somebody to hate. Bloody eternal scapegoat: it’s how Lilith made me. All I want – all I’ve asked for – is a chance, an opportunity to change, but people won’t let me. All I wanted was for mother to love me, for Lilith to be proud of me, for Dean to be my bestie, for you to…” _For you to be loyal to me._ “Well, that wasn’t your fault,” he amends, “Absolute power, yada yada – I’d have been no different.”

“You _were_ different.”

“I was… less quixotic.”

“You’re being kind.”

“My bad.”

“I think you can change. And I’ll let you.” His voice is so quiet, so low in the lofty expanse of the church, that Crowley can barely make out the words even with Cas leaning so close. “I don’t think you even need to change that much. Not now, at least. Perhaps less shoplifting candy. Or at least, only from the big supermarket chains.”

“I’ll work on it.” He pauses, draws a shaky breath. “Cas… I’ve done some terrible things.”

“You were a demon. It was in your nature.”

“But… truly terrible things. You don’t know a thousandth of it. If you knew, you’d hate me.”

“I was an angel and I acted comparably. But humans and demons both found it in themselves to forgive me.”

“You thought you were doing a noble thing. I knew I wasn’t.”

“We can argue this around in circles for eight hours, or you can save your strength for the cure.”

Crowley falls silent. Despite everything, despite the overwhelming onslaught of guilt that he remembers was the worst, the very worst part of receiving Sam’s blood, Cas chiding him like a fussing schoolma’am never fails to bring an indulgent little smile to his face. “Give me your hand.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to hold your hand, moron.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. The demon part of him howls in rage as he says, “I’m ready. Cas…” He tightens his grip on the man’s hand. “If I struggle... Don't stop."

Castiel leans down and presses a kiss to the top of his head. The first spike of blood into his jugular is like mercury, cold fire, ripping through his veins like poison, the purity spreading like an anaesthetic in reverse. Crowley clenches his jaw tight enough he feels his teeth might shatter, but he still can't hold in the screams.  
  


It’s shocking how quickly he loses track of the time. There’s no clock here – Cas sporadically checking the time on his phone – but even so Crowley feels himself drifting in and out of sensibility, bobbing adrift on a haze of pain, with only Castiel’s constant murmur of distracting small-talk to anchor him.

“What’s the first thing you’ll do when you’re human?”

"We'll need identities. ID. Names..."

"Names?” Cas sounds a bit disgusted, like he was expecting ‘tea’ or ‘cake’ or ‘blowie’. “We have names."

"We have one each, sweetheart. Only Cher can get away with that."

Castiel looks musing. "Of course. I can be Steve again."

Crowley snorts in disgust. "I'm not calling you Steve."

"You think of one, then, _Mister_ Crowley.” He pretends to cuff Crowley around the head, but his touch is light, careful. It still makes Crowley flinch. “May I name you?"

"Certainly not." But the quirk of mischief at the corner of his mouth is too much. Crowley relents. "Go on. Be careful."

"Rex." Crowley's smile splits into a lazy grin before he can help it.

"It's dreadful. Sounds like one of my hounds. I'll take it." A low chuckle. "Rex. I have one for you." Castiel narrows his eyes but he's still smiling, just the faintest hint of it. "Angel."

"Angel Castiel?" Castiel raises sceptical eyebrows. Crowley is trying hard not to laugh, despite the spikes of pain running him through and through. "Crowley, this vessel is not of Hispanic ethnicity. And it's a little... literal?"

"And Rex isn't? Besides... It'll explain things if I slip up."

"And when might you... slip up? And call me 'angel'?" Cas's voice has taken on that particular throaty quality that is absolutely distracting Crowley from his current situation.

"Oh, I don't know. Apartment walls are terribly thin these days. Especially the kind of dumps we'll be stuck with for the first few, oh, months."

"Months?"

"Don't think I'm letting us live in any manner to which I'm unaccustomed, angel. Oh - there I go already.”

“Is that so? We’ll have to get jobs.”

Crowley pulls a petulant face. He can feel the sweat, springing up across his forehead. “I’ll be a con-man.”

“I said ‘jobs’, not criminal records.”

“As if they’d catch me.” Crowley focuses, hazily, on Castiel’s pursed lips. “I’m kidding. No naughty business, Brownie’s Honour. At least, not outside of the privacy of our own home.”

“You understand how things work. You’re very dedicated. You could have a good job.”

“Forge some papers. Contracts. Law. I suppose I could.” The yawn he can’t move his hands to stifle isn’t entirely prompted by this turn of conversation: Cas looks at him with mild concern. Crowley lets his head loll against the high back of the chair. “I’m a tad over all that, truth be told. Would you object to my becoming a professional gambler?”

“As long as it’s legal.”

“Sweetheart! I never cheat at poker.” He manages a wink.

Cas smiles, softly. Steps over to the cooler again and returns with a cold, damp flannel that he presses against Crowley’s brow, and Crowley didn’t realise he needed that until he did it. “So, you can be a card shark-”

“Very _street_ , there, angel.”

“-thank you. And I can be a…”

Crowley closes his eyes. The flannel against his forehead is cool, rough. “Yoga instructor.”

“I’m fairly certain you need actual knowledge and qualifications for that, Crowley.”

“Mmmm, but you’re so bendy…” The flannel slaps him gently in the face and, despite the ache of a whole facet of him withering to dust, Crowley chuckles.

“I’ve got no paperwork. No experience. I couldn’t even work in a coffee shop.”

“That’s not true. They’d train you up for that.”

“If I was seventeen perhaps.”

“Hrmmm. You have a point.” Crowley opens his eyes. It could be just his imagination, but the dusty room looks darker: how long have they been here? Here, in this place that you don’t want to be after nightfall. “You can be my kept boy.”

“Absolutely not.”

Another quiet chuckle: it hurts his insides to laugh, but he can’t help it. “We’ll get you some fake papers. Something you’re good at. That won’t take you away from me at weekends.” He doesn’t have to see Cas’s smile; the brief touch to his cheek says it all. “You’re good at a lot of things. You’re a fast learner. You could start up your own business…” he trails off. Yawns again, head nodding, only the twist of pain keeping him awake.

Castiel says, “You’ll need to get your warding tattoos too. So nobody can find us.” _Us_. Not ‘you’. ‘ _Us’_. Crowley’s face feels tired from smiling, or perhaps that’s just the ache of the demon part of him dying. Cas is close enough that Crowley can lift one hand where it’s bound by the wrist to the arms of his chair and lift the hem of Cas’s shirt slightly, brush the very tips of his fingers across the script just above his hip. He feels the shiver that ripples through him at the touch, Castiel leaning further forward, lips parting and eyelids lowering. Bless that sensitive vessel. Around his neck, the bottle of his Grace swings on a black cord: Crowley can just about make it out, glowing faintly through the thin white cotton of his shirt like some kind of raver talisman. “You know, I never really understood the concept of gender or sex,” Cas says, “until I became human the first time, in this vessel, and it started... reacting, to things.”

“What things?”

“Everything.”

“This?” Another gentle stroke of fingertips, caressing a sharp hipbone and Castiel’s eyes are almost closed, his breath shallow and that becoming pink bloom spreading across his cheeks.

“We are in my Father’s house…”

“What, Daddy doesn’t want your boyfriend sleeping over?” He dutifully clenches his hands back around the armrests anyway, but then it’s Cas’s hands that are on him, sliding into the open front of his shirt, across his chest, his shoulders, skimming over his nipples in a way that makes Crowley shiver and bite his tongue.

“Where will we find space for more tattoos?”

“Darling, you can land-survey me _thoroughly_ as soon as I’m…” _Cured. Human. Ordinary_. That twinge of panic and uncertainty again, but he keeps his eyes on the prize – this trusting man – and swallows it down like the worst-tasting, most beneficial medicine. “As soon as we’re on suitably un-holy ground again.”

“Thank you.”

“What for? You’re the one serving me the red stuff and saving my – ha - soul.”

“For being respectful of our location. Maybe that means you’re almost ready.” He pulls his phone out of his pants pocket, checking the display. “One more dose.” He looks towards the cooler, spilling empty blood packs onto the dusty floor.

“All out of pre-mix, bartender. Best crack open the bubbly.” It’s a sick kind of thrill watching him push back his sleeve and slide the hypodermic into the crook of his arm, siphoning off blood without even a flinch, although Crowley knows from repeated experience over the past month that he feels pain acutely now. “Open wide and say ‘ah’,” says Crowley, softly. He leans his head to one side, offering his neck meekly and waiting for the pinch of pain. When Cas depresses the plunger, it barely even hurts anymore. At first it was screaming agony, then an insistent, throbbing ache. Now it’s as if whatever evil is left in him can’t be bothered anymore; an odd, sedated feeling that’s becoming more… comforting, as time passes. A sort of cosy feeling inside, warm and indistinct. Crowley lets his head nod, feels Cas’s palm cup his cheek, supporting him. Yes, this is definitely better than the last time he was almost ‘cured’. The murmured words of praise and encouragement in his ear, ‘you will be alright, it’s nearly over, this is the right thing to do’ are definitely more incentive than the threats and silence last time.

From the corner of his eye, Crowley sees a light. A soft blue glow that he thinks at first is Cas’s bottle of Grace, until Cas says, “Crowley,” and he lifts his heavy eyelids enough to see Castiel’s arm glowing softly blue. Crowley swallows, silently. The palm cupping his cheek slides around, fingers dragging softly through his fuzz of beard, to clamp over Crowley’s mouth. When he starts to speak, Crowley’s eyes widen. It’s not the human Cas he’s grown accustomed to, but The Angel Castiel – surely, impossibly, familiar – reciting sombre and determined, “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” Crowley feels his head pitch back, tries to control it but can’t, “Hanc animam redintegra,” There are tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes, his lungs burning, stretching, the hand over his face stifling, “Lustra!” Crowley wants to cry out _I’m dying, it’s gone wrong, I’m dying, stop_ but he’s suffocating, something inside him immolating, flying up in little flayed twists of agony. “Lustra!” Cas intones. Crowley chokes on a scream, _don’t let the darkness_ , “Lustra!” _take me_ , “Lustra!”

The light fades. It feels like falling.

 

“Crowley?” Cas’s voice, too-soft, too concerned. Crowley squints and frowns, thinks he sees daylight until he realises it’s a camping lamp propped on another chair and it’s still night-time and it’s really, really bloody cold in here. He feels… he feels _terrible_ , awful, uncertain. Like this is surely all a dreadful mistake that he can’t take back. But – he _feels_. Every inch of him hurts, except his arse, which is numb in the left cheek and tingling with pins and needles in the right: how humans can bear this is absolutely beyond him. He’d forgotten what it felt like to need to pee. He feels clammy. Drenched in sweat. He clicks his fingers, and… nothing happens. Castiel shoots him a sympathetic look. “That may take a while to relearn.”

“Bollocks.” Crowley sighs.

“I’m sure you’ll get it back. You still know the theory. You’re just not… supercharged, anymore.”

“Back to fannying about with herbs by moonlight, you mean.”

“I suppose so.”

Crowley lets out a long, suffering groan. “How the sodding crap am I meant to off Rowena when I can’t even wipe my own face anymore?” When he looks up, Castiel is unsuccessfully stifling a smile. “What are you grinning for? This isn’t funny.” Castiel’s smile spreads a little wider. Crowley hates him. He really, really hates him. And he hates this feeling of illogical buoyancy that’s suddenly inflating inside him, he hates this smile that’s pushing its way onto his exhausted mug even as he closes his eyes against mortality. “Shut up. I hate you.”

“In the meantime, you could always try showering the old-fashioned way.”

“Ugh. The effort.”

“It’s not so bad. It can be quite pleasant. I can show you, if you like.”

Crowley opens one eye. “Are you propositioning me?”

“Merely trying to help.”

“Human for not two minutes and already you’re trying to seduce me.” Crowley grins, and stretches, muscles creaking. This feeling, he hazards a guess, might be early-onset contentment. Already the pain in his battered human body seems to be fading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for update spam - I'm having a bit of a time of it atm and these idiots are keeping me sane <3


	6. Hell's angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel eats peanut butter from the jar, Crowley gets warded and they both learn the true meaning of PDA.

 

 Crowley gives up any pretence of retaining the merest scrap of residual demonic hauteur when Cas walks in on him crying at Mantovani. Human him is - who ever could have predicted it? - what could be described as 'a bit of a softie'. Which is at least better than Cas, who, it turns out, is a nerd with a worryingly encyclopaedic knowledge of Star Trek. And Crowley suspected correctly - he doesn't care anymore. Sure, he might still be unable to stomach casual wear and his exacting hygiene standards have become if anything even more fastidious since he became biologically required to clean his teeth, but the whole ‘feelings’ thing has become, bizarrely, liberating. The exploration of his untapped potential for niceness has become addictive.  
"Cas. Guess what I did today?"  
"You witnessed the silent flight of the European barn owl?"  
"What?" Crowley blinks at him. "No - no. I bought some crack for a homeless man."  
"You..?" Cas narrows his eyes and squints at Crowley’s expectant smile.   
Crowley sighs, impatiently. "You're right about helping people. He was ever so happy. Made me feel positively warm inside."  
"You're not really supposed to..." Cas trails off, biting his bottom lip. "Never mind. That was very kind of you, Crowley. You're learning."   
Crowley beams proudly and gives a little flourishing bow. “And I picked up some groceries.” He smirks as, the second he sets the bag down on the room’s solo unsteady table, Cas dives into it. “Bagels, cereal, milk, peanut butter-”

“Chunky.”

“Oh dearie me, I think I got smooth.” His grin widens as Cas retrieves the jar of chunky peanut butter and scowls at him. “And I thought we could take a stroll into town this afternoon. Tie up a few loose ends. Get yours truly good and warded.”  
“Good idea,” Cas says, with his mouth full. He licks off the teaspoon he’s holding and shoves it back into the peanut butter jar. “I think I require a haircut.” Crowley looks at him. Jimmy’s sensible short back and sides, growing out fast now, thick and unruly and starting to curl.

“No, you don’t.”

Cas tilts his head to the side, spoon poised again at his mouth and Crowley’s stupid heart does a stupid throb. “You like it,” states Castiel.

“I like it,” Crowley agrees, sliding into his personal space and winding a hand into the good four inches at the back of Cas’s head and giving a long, soft tug. Cas’s eyes slip closed, but he doesn’t give up sucking on his teaspoon, which does precisely nothing for Crowley’s state of mind.

When Crowley lets him go, he gives the spoon a contemplative look, “I’ll skip the haircut.” He says. Then, “Peanut butter makes me very happy.” Crowley shakes his head, fondly.

 

“Gents,” says the same artist when they go back to the shop and Crowley can’t be a hundred percent sure he’s not taking the piss out of his accent, but he holds his tongue – no point antagonising a guy who’s about to etch a permanent doodle into your carcass. Still, it’s more than a little satisfying when Crowley unbuttons and shrugs off his shirt and the guy’s eyebrows raise in what is undoubtedly surprise and looks suspiciously close to grudging admiration at seeing the work already there. Not for the first time, Crowley blesses what he’s always affectionately imagined as _the Literary Agent’s shady rocker past_ : but the strange stab of guilt he feels accompanying the smugness is definitely a new one. _No use crying over spilt blood_. The guy was gone, long ago – Crowley can’t even remember when, exactly, can’t even be sure if it wasn’t Cas who unwittingly finished him off. He glances over at Castiel, who gives him an utterly ridiculous, unnecessarily supportive grin, accompanied by an actual thumbs-up and suddenly his face is aching with the effort not to smirk.

Cas on the other hand, doesn’t bother to hide his sniggers when the guy shaves a bare square patch in the soft hair on Crowley’s belly. It’s not like he’s an actual ape, but it does still resemble a pet being prepped for an operation a _little_ – usually they’d shave anyone before inking, of course, but this place is admittedly the pits and Cas’s skin is so smooth, taut, golden… Crowley clears his throat and concentrates on not accidentally causing himself the most inconvenient boner of his life thus far. “Matching tats, hey.” The artist observes when Cas hands him the same scribbled-on piece of paper.

“Yeah. Almost.” Crowley leans over and snags a pen from the inside pocket of his discarded jacket, and taking the paper back, adds an extra line a little separate from the rest in his flourishing script. He blows on the fountain ink to dry it, and passes it once more to the guy.

Is it possible to _over-commit_? Cas’s expression, watching the guy finish up that final additional line is a mixture of awe and something scarily close to worry. “How many angels are you planning to show that to?” he asks softly, and Crowley, relieved, detects the hint of teasing there.

“Just the one.”

He can almost feel that gaze as heat, travelling the length of the Enochian script that now curls around his ribs and onto his belly, the name written there – or maybe that’s just the burn of a fresh tattoo. The guy tapes on some Saran wrap and sits back, raising his hands like he’s giving up on the both of them. “I ain’t judging what you biker types get up to, just - go enjoy your ink, dudes.”

The sky is that particular sun-glazed shade of blue that’s somehow started to make Crowley feel a bit like he’s inhaled helium, so they forget the trolley and walk back across town. “Crowley,” Cas says, “Why did the tattoo artist think we are motorcycle owners?”

Crowley shrugs. The ache in his ribs shifts, the plastic wrap clinging uncomfortably humid. “Occult symbolism. You mentioned angels. The Hell’s Angels are a biker gang. He probably thinks we’re gangbangers.” It hurts a bit to chuckle, but he can’t help himself.

“What’s a gangban-”

“I’ll tell you later,” Crowley says, quickly. Cas, taking his cue, nods. As they pause at a Don’t Walk sign, his hand, natural as walking, rests in the small of Crowley’s back and Crowley stiffens. “Cas, don’t…”

The hand is hurriedly removed. “My apologies. I’ve upset you.” His hands are clenched into contrite fists now, at his sides, his face back in the old familiar scowl that Crowley realises with a jolt, he hasn’t seen for weeks.

He grimaces, keeping his voice low. “No… no, it’s just… PDA, you know?” _Does_ he know? The sign changes to green and they drift with the tide of pedestrians across the junction. When they reach the opposite sidewalk, Crowley steps to one side, in the shadow of an apartment block.

“Public displays of affection,” Cas affirms. His voice is lowered, like Crowley’s, as if whispering a dirty secret. “These are frowned upon because of the homosexual nature of our relationship?”

Crowley winces. “Yes…” He wishes that Cas’s answering nod wasn’t so understanding. Demons are so close to humans, so attuned to their ways. Angels are… _oh, this newly-minted soul_. Shame and embarrassment and prejudice, all these tacky learned behaviours: Crowley will be damned all over again if he’s going to be the one to teach them to him. “Cas… you know what? Screw it.” When he leans up and kisses him, right there in the sunny street, there’s the expected smattering of catcalls. A wolf-whistle, a girl shouts _‘you nasty!’_ but a guy calls _‘yass, boyfriend!’_ and Crowley can feel Castiel’s lips curve into a smile against his. It’s hardly hard-core pornography, but he’s suddenly very eager to get home again.

“Does that mean you no longer care for the rules?” Castiel says with a sideways smirk. Crowley links his little finger around Cas’s and resists the urge to swing their arms in time with their steps.

“I’m not quite ready to be _that_ human yet,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, THANK YOU to anyone who is sticking with this - I keep worrying that this is becoming so utterly saccharine that I'm ripping them both totally out of character, but at the same time I can't seem to stop the candyfloss, eep.


	7. I just need a steady hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley encounters money troubles, and does some sewing and they discuss the job situation some more.

It’s an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon when Hell cuts Crowley off. This takes the form of him swearing creatively at an ATM and giving the wall at the base of the machine a vindictive little kick that hurts him far more than it hurts the slab of uncaring aluminium before him. Card declined. “They’ve realised?” Cas says. Crowley screws up his face in an effort to not start yelling in the street.

“Bloody Jeffrey.” His voice is a poisonous hiss. “I’ll bloody skin him alive.”

“No flaying people,” Cas says, quiet and firm, and Crowley can’t make up his mind if it’s another example of Castiel’s sometimes indetectably deadpan humour, or a serious warning. Whichever, he’s barely equipped to fight off even the weakest of demons any more, never mind back in his magic game enough to be able to neck one. He lets out a shuddering, angry breath. “Can they trace us? From that?” Cas’s voice is still low, as he indicates the ATM with a nod of his head. It’s the same reasoning that led Crowley to give up his mobile, get a new one on – ugh – pay as you go, when they first went into hiding, but he shakes his head.

“They could, but I’ll bet you my everloving soul they don’t. I have no idea who they’ve got blundering around in charge now, but none of the pillocks were ever much for modern means without my say-so. They’ll have the hounds out, they’ll try all the spells, but we’re safe,” he darts a glance at Cas, who doesn’t look worried, just… sober. “That’s if they even bother to look for me. Odds are they’re just hoping I don’t turn back up. So they can take over my sodding _kingdom_ …” It’s an unwelcome visitor, this returning stab of rage inside, and Crowley kicks the wall again, vicious and frustrated.

Behind him a voice says, “Hey, man, you done?” and Castiel’s firm hand on his elbow steers him away before he can inform the stranger just exactly _how_ done he is.

It’s going to take ages. They’ve already tentatively dipped toes into the job market but Crowley is proud and Cas is apparently unemployable, except for the kind of long-hours, low-wage, late-night cash-in-hand shifts that Crowley refuses to let him take on. It’s difficult to find employment that doesn’t require ID and is strictly above-board. Crowley’s been cleaning up at poker, but even that’s going to be difficult without a bank account or even a name, and the type of games that pay cash over the table in that sport are the type that skirt a little too close to the element that Castiel would rather they try to avoid. He’s idealistic. Naïve, still, in a lot of ways. Crowley doesn’t relish having to build up a network of contacts from scratch, charming his way seamlessly into the backrooms of this city as he knows he absolutely can, but it’s going to happen. It has to happen, because they both really do need to buy new identities now, and whilst the illegality, the _risk_ , doesn’t bother Crowley remotely as much as he’s sure it probably should, the element of time and patience it’ll require to set up afresh, when he has to avoid all of his old top-side contacts or risk detection, feels like time they can’t afford and patience he’s unwilling to spare.

“I don’t take well to poverty,” Crowley says, when they’re back in their shabby little room.

“Crowley, we’re not poor.”

“If you say ‘we’re rich in love’ or any such trite-”

“You have a large box of bank notes hidden behind the ceiling tiles.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. He’s been steadily withdrawing funds from his fake account for the past few weeks, in anticipation of this. It’s probably what prompted Hell’s treasurer to freeze the funds in the first place. “Yes, but how long will that last?”

“A long time, if we’re careful.”

“I don’t do careful,” Crowley says, carefully drawing Cas to him, arm slipping around his waist. His fingers find torn edges and he clicks his tongue in distaste. “I loathe being hard-up. You’re already dressing like a vagabond.”

Castiel squirms as the light touch of Crowley’s fingertips finds its way through the rip at the waist of his tshirt. It’s fascinating, mesmerising and beautiful, the way his lips part needily, the way his hips lift, like a Pavlovian reaction to a certain private touch. “Off,” Crowley says, tugging at his shirt hem, and Cas lifts his arms, all fluid grace, slips the offending garment smoothly off. Crowley slides a palm up his ribs; warm, smooth. Very hard to resist. Then he stands up, leaving Cas sitting, flushed and half naked on the couch.

It’s almost worth leaving him hanging for that pout, that gorgeous thwarted glower. “Crowley?” Crowley cracks a tiny smirk. He finds what he’s looking for in the nightstand drawer and returns to sit next to Cas. Cas scowls at him. “Where did you get that?”

“Gas station.”

“What for?”

“Mending things.” He can feel Castiel’s eyes on him as he unwinds cotton from one of the pathetic little emergency-kit reels and cuts it with his teeth. The shirt’s grey, but the closest matches in the kit are, predictably, black and white. He can work with white. Although why they include a needle threader but not grey cotton… It’s a little thrill being watched: a strange small stroke to his ego, as he senses how Cas didn’t expect this of him. He threads the needle without looking and sets to work on the reverse side of the shirt, tiny expert stitches, almost invisible. It only takes a few minutes, sat in silence. Quick. “There you go.”

“Thank you.” Cas tilts his head. He doesn’t put his shirt back on, just sits with the mended piece in his hands, inspecting it. “Where did you..?”

“Used to be a tailor, didn’t I?”

“When you were alive. I mean-”

“Yeah,” Crowley says.

“That was a long time ago. You still remember?”

“Every infernal sodding second of it.”

Cas runs a finger over the mended tear like it’s a holy relic or something. “You must have been good at it. Didn’t you enjoy the work?”

“Every damn stitch hand-sewn for ingrates who spent more on hankies in a week than my rent was for a year? By candle light as well. Ruins your eyesight, darling.” He studies Cas’s expression, inscrutable then. He says, quietly, “No. My life wasn’t much fun, but I didn’t mind the work.”

“Maybe that’s what you could do again. Now.” Crowley watches the flex of lean muscle across Cas’s ribs as he pulls the tshirt back over his head. He shakes his head.

“Nah. Too much set up. Too much competition from cheap labour – still. No way you’re getting any money out of it without an art school degree-” he holds up a silencing finger as Cas opens his mouth. “It’s been a long time. Too long. I’ve been thinking.”

“Did it hurt?”

Crowley flashes him an appreciative grin. “Something we can do together. What are we both good at?”

“Killing.”

“Yes we are. Close.”

“Warfare?”

“Apply these principles.”

“Pest control?” Cas asks, dubiously.

“Subterfuge. Spying. Deals. Research.” Crowley regards Cas’s blank expression. “Investigating. Private investigation. It’s perfect, think about it – it’s discreet, fringe, we can request cash-in-hand, customers are highly unlikely to go shooting their mouths off about us, and it pays well. And,” his index finger draws spirals on the soft denim covering Cas’s thigh, “we get to work together.”

“Will it be dangerous?”

“Oh, very.” Cas meets Crowley’s most charming smile with one of his own.

“And will I get to introduce you to everyone as my partner?” Cas asks. His nose crinkles when he smiles like that. Crowley lets out a chuckle.

“You get to do that already,” He says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for update spam, it just won't stop coming (Matron!)  
> Happy New Year everyone x


	8. Eighteen shots of whiskey at the White Horse tavern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel gets really, really into the Internet. Crowley gets his first human hangover in centuries and Castiel cures it for him. With his willy.

Crowley doesn’t get hangovers.

Bracing his hands against the bathroom countertop, he leans forward, staring into the steam-clouded mirror like he’s about to do some divination. That’s not the same now though, is it? Nothing is the same. He looks bloody awful. Rough as toast. _Old_. This face, so familiar he stopped paying it attention; now he can no longer glimpse the coiling, boiling power of his True Form beneath it. It’s just… him. Like he’s lost himself. Or is finding himself, perhaps. Searching for meaning in this unchanging, second-ticking, visage. Raising a hand, he rubs across a month’s worth of scruffy dark beard, flecked with grey. He looks puffy, suddenly has jowls like a bloody bulldog – he’s always been justifiably vain about his jawline – his eyelids all swollen up over bloodshot whites.

If someone had asked him three months ago what colour his eyes were, he’d have said brown. Or maybe red, depending who was delivering the question - he’d had such _arresting_ red eyes. But he’d always been attached to this vessel, because from the second he spotted it, it had reminded him of his first body, his mortal body. Now it’s really his, it’s like a stranger looking back at him, silently accusing.

_Last night._

_Inevitably, Crowley gets sick of slumming it and buys himself a bottle of Glencraig from an upmarket whiskey retailer in the nice end of town. He pays cash and the store clerk doesn’t even flicker, meets Crowley’s eye respectfully, Crowley in his tasteful suit that’s still elegant despite the fact it could do with a proper steaming and his shirt hasn’t been ironed **properly** since the past four washes at the coin-op laundromat that shares a zip code with their motel. It feels **nice**. Feels like old times, except Crowley has never **paid** for whiskey in his life before, has never actually been the one to procure it from a shop. But he likes this illusion. He could get used to this illusion._

_“This does not taste like butterscotch,” Castiel says, suspiciously, later, re-reading the description on the bottle’s label. He pulls a face that looks nothing but outraged and really shouldn’t be so adorable when his voice is so absolutely serious. “It tastes like the smell of antiseptic.”_

_“You’re a philistine, you know that?” Crowley says it without rancour. His jacket’s off, and his tie, his sleeves pushed up and socked feet crossed at the ankle where he’s sitting propped against the revolting pink velour headboard of one of their beds. The smooth, fragrant burn spreading through his chest, into his belly, is soothing. Familiar. Unknotting his muscles and fanning comfortable heat to his cheeks. He lets his head loll against the padded board at his back, turns to smile at Castiel, sitting too-close next to him on the queen-size bed. “You’d probably prefer a Bacardi Breezer, wouldn’t you?”_

_“I do not know what that is.”_

_“Well, thank Heaven for small mercies, let’s keep it that way. Trust me - this is the good stuff. Just try again, give it a chance.” Cas, obediently – or perhaps just gamely – takes another sip. Crowley can tell when he’s trying not to pull a face, but he appreciates the effort, especially given Cas’s usual brand of tact. He takes another sip himself, lets it flow across his tongue. “That’s the way. Just hold it in your mouth. Let yourself enjoy it.” The way Cas’s eyes flicker to Crowley’s mouth at that stokes a different kind of heat in Crowley’s belly. Cas’s lips quirk up just the tiniest fraction at one corner, a secret little smile. He swirls his drink, hypnotic, elegant fingers cradling a dollar-store glass. Crowley takes another, larger, sip. The smoky, burnt-sugar scent of it clouds him, tingling hot against the roof of his mouth. “Heat. Fire. Yes?”_

_“Yes.” Cas agrees, voice roughened; drinking would suit him, Crowley thinks, hazily, and wishes suddenly that he’d bought some cigarettes too._

_“You can smell it. The fires. Wild. And homely. And sweet too.” The back of his free hand brushes against the back of Cas’s, suddenly there beside his on the ugly pink bedspread: is he still talking about whiskey? Crowley has another swallow to make sure. “That burn in your throat. Pleasurable pain. The more you have, the more you want.” His own voice is going the way of his drink; harsher and sweeter at once, strangely stirred. Absolutely alive. “Can’t you taste that, angel? That first hit of smoke – woody, earthy. Then that kick of sweetness, hot going down. Then smooth on the aftertaste, almonds and cream.”_

_Castiel takes another cautious sip, his eyes slipping and then squeezing closed. Breathless. Tongue swiping his broad lower lip. Then, his nose wrinkles. “You are deluded. This is horrible.”_

_Crowley sighs. “You… learn to appreciate it.” Cas’s snort of laughter says ‘like life?’ and Crowley hates himself a little for being able to read him so easily now that it’s almost telepathy._

_“Maybe you should finish my glass this time.” Cas says. Their fingers brush as Crowley takes it from him, and isn’t it stupid that he’s been worshipping this man with his mouth and his hands, his whole body, for over a month now but his heart still jumps at the slightest touch. Cas says, “But… thank you for sharing it with me.”_

_“I’ll share anything with you.”_

_In answer, Cas leans across him, taking the glass back and setting it firmly on the nightstand, pressing a skilful palm over just precisely the part of Crowley he’d like him to offer._

 

What happened next is now unusually, unfairly fuzzy, a delightful if somewhat soft-focus blur of tongue and teeth and caramel skin. ‘Craig had always been one of Crowley’s few actually simple pleasures and it’s so unjust that that’s now been taken from him too. The odd glass, whatever, but that he can’t afford to drink it like water anymore, fiscally or physically, is frankly outrageously unjust. “Angel.” He calls quietly, and isn’t surprised to receive no answer. Cas hasn’t heard him. His reflection in the mirror rolls its eyes at him, and he flips it off. He goes to lean in the doorway of the bathroom, just so he can see him. Cas propped up on one of the beds, intent on the laptop they bought a couple of weeks ago, the convenience worth the expenditure. He’s taking advantage of the motel wifi, ‘reading through the classics’ he informed Crowley – from The Three Musketeers to Don Quioxte to Wuthering Heights - and it has to be better than him marathoning Judge Judy. His face in the blue screen light is screwed up in concentration. Crowley is starting to wonder if all along that permanent searching squint hasn’t been just a sign that The Lord’s Holy Warrior needs glasses. “Angel,” he repeats. Cas looks up. “What colour are my eyes?”

Cas squints again. He says, with barely a pause. “Honey.” Something in Crowley’s chest squeezes and won’t stop squeezing.

“Remember when you gave me honey?”

Castiel winces, like he does and would rather not. “It was… an apology.”

“What for?”

“You know what for.”

Crowley sucks his lower lip between his teeth and lets it go again with a sigh. “You never needed to apologise to me.” His voice sounds wrung-out.

“Crowley, are you alright?”

"Alright?" Crowley runs a hand over his face, ruffles his hair wearily. "I'm just dandy, kitten. I'm..." Why on earth is he falling back into management patter now? He exhales another, longer, sigh. "No."  
Lowering the laptop lid, not quite enough to cut off the slice of brightness leaking from the screen, Castiel tilts his head. "What is the matter?"  
"I think I have a hangover." Crowley admits, begrudgingly.  
"You didn't drink all that much." He sounds curious rather than mocking but Crowley still flinches as the pincer-grip on his dehydrated grey-matter gives a vicious twist. "Dean imbibes beer almost constantly and I rarely witnessed him suffering for it."  
This isn't what Crowley wants to hear. "Dean Winchester is an alcoholic." Cas narrows his eyes, gives a disapproving little head wag that Crowley waves away. "He's used to it. Evidently your righteous colonic cleansed out more than just my demony bits."  
"That's good news." Cas says, but he sounds a little unsure. Being mortally healthy is one thing but a virgin liver is not at the top of Crowley’s list of priorities. He pinches the bridge of his nose, frowning at the clammy sick feeling of his own skin. "Are you going to vomit?" Cas enquires, sincerely and Crowley almost manages a snigger.  
"No. Just a bit of a headache."  
"One moment."  
Crowley peers at him from between his fingers. Head bent over the laptop screen again. "What are you doing?"  
"Research."  
  
Half an hour later and Crowley is blessing that laptop as the best purchase he's ever made. And all credit to his resident ex-angel: technically-minded he may not be, but there's nothing he doesn't seem to quickly pick up when he's motivated. Castiel returns from an emergency supplies run with aspirin, a large Wendy's bag and a bottle of toxic-hued sports drink that tastes even worse than it looks. "How could you say that ‘Craig is horrible? This tastes like the defeat of dreams, in Pantone."  
"It's good for you. Drink it." His voice is a stern rumble that makes Crowley, in his delicate state, duck his head and comply meekly, whilst trying not to look too much like he enjoys being ordered around by Cas in business mode just a little wee bit. The burgers and fries are more appetising. "Fat, salt and sugar," Cas intones gravely. "The Internet says you're craving it around now."  
"Mmmm," Crowley agrees with his mouth full, watching Cas fold skinny fries into his mouth, licking the salt off his fingertips fastidiously: he tries not to focus on what he's actually craving.  
"The Internet says you need to rest and rehydrate." Castiel states with authority. He wipes his hands on a weedy little paper napkin, discards it along with the food wrappers on the nightstand and kneels up on the bed, fitting himself in behind where Crowley is sitting. The solid length of his body, flush against Crowley's back, is warm. He leans back against it, breathing out slowly, eyes slipping shut. Long, capable fingers dig into the hard knots of muscle at the crux of Crowley's shoulders and an embarrassing involuntary noise of pleasure escapes him. He leans his head, rubbing cat-like against the back of Cas's kneading hands. "Is this correct?" Castiel's voice is soft now.  
"Mmmmyes. Don't stop." He can feel it through two layers of thin jersey, the slight swell of Cas's growing excitement, pressing against his back. Involuntary, too. He can't stop a little smile, even if he's too sleepy to act on it, too relaxed now to turn the tables and pin him to the bed and... Oops. His own cock is twitching now, interested. He lifts his arms at Cas's nudging encouragement, helps him pull off the borrowed tshirt he'd slept in - loose on Cas but snug against the broad expanse of Crowley's shoulders.  
"Lie down."  
Cas's voice is rough velvet now. He obeys without a second thought, turning his cheek against the pillows, cradling his banging head against his forearms. When Cas straddles him, he swallows thickly. Moans at the hands that alight on his shoulders. There's no art to this: it's all instinct; clearly Cas has no actual idea what he's doing but his touch is confident anyway, sure and strong, smoothing across Crowley's tense shoulders in sweeping, soothing arcs. Crowley can't hold in a whimper every time those blunt fingertips dig in, loosening tight muscles, rolling Crowley's flesh beneath his palms in just the right gently-not-too-gently - ah! Crowley groans, muffles it in his pillow. He's always appreciated a good massage. He must have had hundreds throughout his career in Hell, and he's always felt more than adequately catered-to, but never before... cared for. His grip tightens around the pillow as Cas's fingers walk further down his spine, just the perfect pressure. Cas shifts, moving lower on his legs, a firm weight. And Crowley's mouth feels weird: sort of tingly and slack, filling with spit, his head fuzzy with pleasant sensation. His cock is a hot brand, pressing, aching, against the mattress. He's tired, languid, and the weight of Cas sitting across his thighs is preventing him from moving, rutting, relieving this building heaviness in any way. It's exquisite torture. Then the press shifts again, Cas crawling lower still, and Crowley feels fingers dip below the waistband of his shorts. His breath sticks in his throat. Raising his arse, he lets Cas slip his underwear down over his hips and off. Thumbs digging gently into the dimples at the base of his back. Circling. Fingers splaying out, across his hips, palms rubbing circles, lower, until they’re kneading at his arse, every pass spreading him wide – Crowley whimpers, raising his hips, dignity be damned. Part of him begs, panting, _do it_ – like he can will Cas just by that magical somehow-telepathy alone - he's aching for it; they haven't done that since their somewhat inauspicious first time part-under his mother's magical influence, and it's felt wrong to rush it since, when their immediate necessary concerns have been so much elsewhere, but now... Cas moves to lie on top of him, weight braced but still driving him, heavy and solid, into the mattress. His clothed cock rubs, rigid, in the cleft of Crowley’s arse, drawing teasing gasps. Just the one layer of fabric between them, because Cas rarely bothers with underwear indoors now, finds it constrictive, and Crowley tells him he’s a monster, then watches him hungrily as soon as he’s unaware… pressing harder into the mattress, Crowley shudders. If anything, this feels filthier. No white-bread missionary here; this is more than free will, it's initiative, imagination, next on the list of Things Castiel Did Not Learn In Heaven. And what a beautifully dirty mind his angel has. Cas rolls them onto their sides, holding Crowley close against his chest as he wriggles out of his own pants, pushing them down just enough to free his erection, sliding between the crease of Crowley's thighs, thrusting wet, soft ruck of jersey where his sweatpants are bunched somewhere just above his knees - oh mercy, what a picture - his panting lips at Crowley's nape, whispering things into his ear that Crowley can't catch, a language he only half understands when it's being muttered like this, heated and breathless, the words at once lyrical and guttural, blasphemous and holy. "I like how you feel. How you look. Like this.” Cas’s voice washes over him, purring. “I like how you're like this only for me. I like you being mine.” The wet touch of teeth to his earlobe. The thrust between his closed thighs. He feels heavy, sedated, sinking into the mattress, drowning in it, the warmth and comfortable arousal. “I like your confident smile. I like your pretending-to-be-confident smile. I like the way you smile when it’s only you and I. I like how I can tell the difference, now.” His voice is a warm buzz at Crowley’s nape, sizzling through his whole body. His hand strokes, firm. His hips roll. “I like your eyes.”  
“Honey,” Crowley says weakly. Cas kisses him on the shoulder.  
"I like this," he murmurs, all grit and sugar, hand working Crowley's length. His lips graze the back of Crowley’s neck, the curve of his ears; significant susceptible places. He punctuates his meaning with a firm squeeze. “I like touching it. _You_. I like how thick it-” With a poorly-stifled groan, Crowley bucks into Cas’s hand, hard, panting and spilling. And Cas knows how to, now - how to push him through it, wring out every last little twinge of pleasure. He’s still rutting, helpless – where they’re pressed together, chest to back, slips with sweat – Crowley presses back against him and Cas’s dick rubs, beautifully oversensitive, against his perineum, nudging the back of his balls. Both of them breathing hard, ragged, now. Crowley squeezes his thighs together and feels Cas stiffen behind him, gather him tighter as heat spills between them.

They lie like that, for a while. Two minutes, or ten. Cas peppers little kisses across his shoulders, rubs circles with his thumbs like he didn’t quite finish that massage properly. Except, he must have done, because Crowley feels abso-bloody-lutely relaxed right now. Then, “Do you feel any better?”

Crowley huffs a little laugh. “I certainly _forgot_ about the roadworks in my skull for a while.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

Crowley rolls over to face him, presses a serious kiss to his serious mouth. “That’s a yes. So, did the Internet tell you to do that, too?”

“I ad-libbed.”

“I like it when you surprise me.” Crowley glides a palm down Cas’s smooth flank, wrinkles his nose when it comes away sticky. “But now we really both need a shower.”

“You go first,” Cas says. “There’s something I need to do.”

 

When Crowley emerges again twenty minutes later, flushed and tousled and towel-wrapped, he’s immediately handed a mug, accompanied by that particular expectant smile. “You like it when I surprise you,” Cas says. Crowley hadn’t been expecting to have that quoted back at him quite so soon, but he takes the mug anyway. “I was saving it for something and this seems to be the right time.”

“What is this?” Oh, the dawning realisation.

“Tea.”

“Is this… _Yorkshire_ tea?” He takes another sip, far too hot, just how he likes it. “Where the Hell did you get this?”

“I ordered it from the Internet.”

Crowley stares at him with round eyes. “You are a miracle.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Crowley. Everybody orders goods online.” He’s doing that little pleased grin at the carpet, though. Crowley can’t resist it. He pulls him into a tight, one-armed hug.

“No exaggeration necessary. You are an actual angel.”

His hangover seems, finally, to be abating.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Look, I truly do apologise for this one, because this thing is getting increasingly self-indulgent – it started out as me projecting my I-am-sorrow New Year’s Day hangover feels then turned into me drinking quite a bit of very good whiskey on my last night before going back to work as 'research' then became what was supposed to be Cas being ultra-adorable making surprise restorative tea and then suddenly there were neck rubs happening and they wanted to bone again and I just give up, they’re incorrigible perverts and I can’t control my own plot. The next chapter was meant to be grand finale boning but now I think I have to insert (ahem) another cute section just to balance out the filth because this thing is just expanding at a rate like really rude ginger beer.)


	9. Only one thing got me huffing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Crowley go to a bar. Crowley buys cigarettes and cleans up at pool. Title from the amazing Hawksley Workman song.  
> (This is for crowleyscuddlebuddy who wanted more introductions to pleasures of the flesh!)

When Crowley says he's going out, to a bar, Castiel almost stays behind in their room. It's glaring, in the way he's holding his shoulders, the tangible prickle surrounding him like static electricity: Cas is nervous.  
"You don't have to come, you know." Crowley says.  
"I want to come."  
"Mmm. Evidently." Crowley glances over his limited wardrobe and wrinkles his nose. What does one wear when attempting a first foray into making underworld connections in a new city? It's an etiquette nightmare, like starting to date again after coming out of a decades-long relationship. He feels uncomfortably off his game.  
"Or we could stay in and order pizza," Cas says. He slinks up behind Crowley, winding arms around his chest and resting his chin on his shoulder. Crowley can't help his little smile.  
"Tempting, but I have to start taking care of business at some point. The honeymoon can't last forever, darling."  
Cas frowns - Crowley catches it in the mirror, their reflections, all wrapped up - which means he's detected facetiousness. He pulls away to go and sit stiffly on the edge of one of the beds. Crowley sighs. Decides on his reliable go-to, black shirt, black suit, but leaves his tie off and the top button of his shirt open. "Besides, aren't you going stir crazy in here? I know I am."  
"No," says Cas, pointedly.  
"You can't sit around watching telly all day for the rest of your life."  
"I read."  
"Angel..."  
"We leave the room to purchase groceries."  
"At some point we're going to have to start socialising with other _humans_. It's what _humans_ do. And they do it in bars."  
Cas presses his lips together, avoiding Crowley's eyes. After a moment he says, "You are right. An excursion would probably be beneficial."  
"And fun." That's met with an eye-roll. Crowley tries not to smirk. When Cas shrugs into his trench-coat - that awful old security blanket of a garment - Crowley knows he really is anxious.  
  
Two hours later and Crowley doesn't know whether to be proud or a little jealous.  
It's not the usual type of place he'd frequent by choice; closer to the dives that Dean dragged him into during his brief flirtation with the dark half, but not _quite_ that skeevy. More... _homely_. Just a local bar full of locals; absolutely not the place for making useful contacts, but Crowley figures, they have to start somewhere and this is as likely a gene-pool as any to dip their mortal toes into first.  
He orders straight Scotch, which isn't good, but isn't actually too bad either. Cas is craning his neck at the large-screen TV across the room so Crowley orders him a hard cider – some sugary honey and apple thing - and hands it to him with a gently warning look. By the time Cas has reached the bottom of his second bottle and Crowley is four-deep, Cas has unwound enough to drape his trench over the back of his chair. It takes a whole three minutes for Crowley to visit the bathroom, but there's already a woman sitting in his vacated chair when he returns.  
"Here he is," says Cas, with a gratifying level of affection in his voice. The lady looks up, mirth dimpling her cheeks – she looks early thirties maybe, blonde, pretty - and Crowley thinks _yeah, try as hard as you like, love_ and shoots back his most winsome grin. "My partner, who I was telling you about." Punch to the gut, that: Crowley tries not to reel, or look too happy. "Crowley, this is Sandy. She would rather be baking cupcakes.”  
The woman flashes Castiel the kind of unplanned look that people tend to give him when he says or does anything, then turns and holds a hand out for Crowley to shake, so Crowley ducks down a little and kisses it instead, says, “Charmed,” just to see that perplexed look notch up a point. He’s not disappointed, although her giggle sounds as many parts delighted as affronted. The power of the accent, probably.  
"So, you guys are business partners?"  
"Sexual partners," Castiel declares blithely, and both Crowley and the woman explode perfectly timed matching coughs. Crowley recovers first, smiles brightly and gives an affirmative little nod, watching her face for clues. And sure she looks a little surprised, disappointed maybe, but there's also that undercurrent of 'oh aren't you guys just so cute' as she says, "Oh! Oh, that's awesome. How long have you been an item?"  
"A while," Crowley says, "but we're new to the area."  
“Yeah, you’re British, right?”  
“Guilty.” Crowley makes a little bow, all business.  
“So, how long you lived here?”  
"Four weeks, three days and ten hours," Cas says. Crowley gives him an incredulous look, he can't help it, and the answering gaze is all wide and unwitting. He's tipsy, Crowley realises with a jolt. His eyes bright and cheeks flushed, merry off little more than a pint of cider.  
"How did you guys meet, then? Not in here, I’m guessing."  
Crowley's expression must be a tad panicky because Cas looks like he's holding in laughter. "A long time ago. Through... work."  
Oh, dear lord.  
"Rival companies. A joint project." God, maybe Crowley's had more than he meant to as well, but he can't resist that smile creasing the corners of Cas's eyes. "You know how it is. Couldn’t abide one another at first. Absolute screaming hatred for the longest time."  
"I never hated you," says Cas, quietly. His piercing gaze is so fond that Crowley feels suddenly, weirdly, exposed. He clears his throat. The pause drags, threatening to become awkward, then Cas says, "Do you play pool, Sandy? I've always wanted to try pool."  Crowley exhales, slowly. When he goes to the bar again he orders more cider half and half with lemonade and sod the barman's sniggers; as tempting as it is to get Cas rolling drunk it seems somehow unsporting. Even when, delightful as he usually is, he's reaching unbearable levels of charming when he's miscuing with idiot regularity and laughing brightly at his own ineptitude. "Crowley, help me.” His beckoning hand takes the offered pint glass and sinks a quarter in one swallow. “This is more skilled than it appears."  
"Didn't Squirrel even teach you how to hustle?" Crowley tucks in behind him, because he can. Bends him over and lines up the cue, fingers interlaced, drawing their arms back smoothly and trying not to pay too much attention to the way Cas presses back against him. _Time, place_. _Impossible_. The shot misses, but it's closer than he was getting without Crowley's direction. Crowley wonders, briefly, if this _isn't_ just part of an elaborate hustle: he wouldn't put it past him. But, no. Available evidence suggests that Castiel really is just dreadful at pool.  
"I'm not bad, I just lack practice." He hands the cue to Crowley, who paces once around the table, assessing. Sandy watches, with her hands on her hips and lips pursed in amusement but he can _feel_ Cas's eyes on him.  
"Hmm," Crowley concludes, when he’s sized up the table. Cas managed, on a fluke, one successful shot and Sandy’s down to three solids. There’s an easy line to pocket the 15, but Crowley bends and sends the cue ball hard off the cushion, hitting the 13 which hits the 11, which hits the 9 and sends both the latter smartly into a corner pocket. Sandy exhales a low whistle. Crowley smirks at her, but he can’t look Cas in the eye, it’ll definitely ruin his jittery concentration, so he stalks to the opposite side of the table and pockets the 12, the white ball rolling to a perfectly positioned halt in front of the 13. It’s almost too easy. Sinking the orange, the cue ball rebounds and knocks the green 14 right to the brink of a middle pocket. Crowley clears his throat. The ball teeters and goes in. Cue stood on end he rocks it gently between his palms, sucking on his lower lip for a moment, then pockets the 15. And it’s a straight shot again to a middle pocket, the 8-ball there right on a plate, but he’s never denied that he’s a showboating bastard and people are watching and more to the point Cas is watching. “Top left corner pocket.” Crowley indicates where with an incline of his head. Then he slams the cue ball off two cushions, clipping the 8 smartly into top left. The white ball rolls to a gentle stop, directly on the foot spot. Crowley places his cue alongside it.  
"Jesus." Sandy says. She starts clapping slowly, repeats it, "Jesus. Remind me never to play you for money.”  
Crowley winks at her. "Just nipping out a moment. Won’t be a tick.” He looks hopefully at Cas. “You coming?”  


There’s no roof terrace here, not even a beer garden, just a sort of agreed designated spot by the bins which Crowley supposes with a derisive snort might be glamourous in a kind of West Side Story way, if you squint. They park themselves there, loitering like naughty teenagers as the punters walk to and fro, entering and leaving O’Hanrahan’s bar. Really, things haven’t moved on any in how many centuries.  
“What are you doing?” Castiel asks, as Crowley fishes the packet of Luckies from his inside pocket and zips open the cellophane seal.  
“Settle down, Mother Theresa, it's just a cigarette. Only mild vices from now on, I promised.”  
Cas narrows his eyes, but it’s not disapproval. “You're human now. It's bad for you.”  
“All things in moderation, love.” The little wheel of the disposable lighter sparks, flaring a flame that’s surprisingly bright against the night-time dark. Crowley sucks in a satisfied breath. “Ah. That's been a long time. You know, I could never afford tobacco when I was young. Went on a bit of a bender when I... Well. Long time ago.” Both of them, leaning side by side against the gritty black wall of the bar. Cas’s eyes, always on him. He's looking at the glowing cherry, the curling smoke. “You know, humans have it wrong, as usual.” Crowley continues, “It's not about the addiction, the high. It's about the pleasure. Rationing that pleasure to make it meaningful.” He takes another drag and Cas’s eyes follow his hands, all lit up bluer than blue from the neon sign that flashes above the window next to the door. “That first hit. That relief. The burn in your lungs, curling right through the core of you. The ritual. The setting aside of time, time for yourself…”  
“Crowley?” Cas asks, quietly. “Do you miss Hell?” Crowley looks at the burning end of the cigarette between his fingers. He doesn’t answer. Cas says, quieter still, “What did I take from you.” And it isn’t a question.  
“No.” Crowley’s voice is firm. He means it to be. “You gave me everything. Yes, I,” _is he saying this, or is the whiskey saying this?_ “I… miss it. I do. But... It wasn't this. I just miss the power. The politics. The game.”  
“You need to find employment.”  
Crowley laughs, ruefully. Reaching out, Castiel gently takes the cigarette from between his fingers and places it carefully into his own mouth. His eyes slide closed as his lips purse around it, squinting against the smoke. They stay closed as his lips part and he exhales, a steady stream that puffs up around him and looks less like Hellfire smoke than clouds: a little piece of fallen divinity; Crowley is mesmerised. He’d expected him to cough, to hate it like hard liquor, but he’s raising his hand again for another drag, and, “Do you miss heaven?” Crowley asks, like he’s hooked up to some stupid lie detector.  
“No.”  
“As simple as that?”  
“It was my everything. My world. And my cage. I praised. I served. I fought. Then I...”  
“Fell?” Crowley wets his lips, watching the smoke tumbling from that divine mouth.  
“Learned.” It comes out as almost a growl. “Whatever passed between us, _then_ , you helped free me. At the very least. I still love my Father, Crowley. But I don't love war. I don't love the end justifying every means.” He nods towards the Lucky he’s holding, almost burnt down. “These are good. I like them.”  
“A cigarette is a perfect type of a perfect pleasure.”  
“It is exquisite and it leaves one unsatisfied.” Cas replies, and Crowley nods, hiding his surprise.  
“Not just a pretty mind, old Oscar. Dynamite in the sack, too.”  
Castiel narrows his eyes, and Crowley is pretty sure it’s not because of the smoke this time. “You made a deal with Oscar Wilde?” He grinds the filter out pointedly under the heel of his Chelsea boot.  
“Who said anything about a deal? Tried to. I guess you could call him the one that got away.”  
“I saw you.” That bones-deep voice. Crowley is a bit startled.  
“What, with Oscar?”  
“Stop talking about Oscar Wilde.” Cas says, irritably. He holds a hand out, beckons with his fingers until Crowley cottons on and hands him the pack and lighter. “I saw you, from heaven. I used to keep watch.”  
“I know you did.”  
“Over everything in heaven and on earth. Humans and vampires and deities and demons.” Cas exhales a long plume of smoke. “You.”  
“You never told me that.” Crowley says, softly. His blood feels suddenly icy.  
“You didn't look like you then. Well. I suppose you looked _more_ like you. Through a vessel’s eyes on earth we see only the vessel. A glimpse.” Crowley nods, unsettled but understanding. “From heaven with my true eyes, I saw your true form.” Reaching out, he runs a single fingertip down the back of Crowley’s hand. Crowley shivers. Not just from the touch. Cas’s face is in shadow now, the way he’s standing. His voice dark too. He flicks ash from his cigarette and Crowley sees his face, lit red from below by his inhale. “You, Crowley. Red as blood. The serpent. The _size_. All those eyes and teeth, draped in chains of bone, power and majesty and terrible, _so terrible_ , you were _almighty_...” he stalls. Breathless. Crowley could swear, almost, _reverent_.  
“You were an angel. You should have been repulsed.”  
“I was... entranced. I...” His head tilts, teeth worrying at his lower lip. “Curious. I wanted to touch you, just to see how it felt. That blazing bloody skin.”  
“Always played with fire, haven't you, Castiel? Right from the day you were made.” Crowley hears himself mesmerised, wondering. And Cas smiles and takes another drag, waving his fingers through the smoke, watching it curl around them like a demon freed. And he leans in, taking a light hold of Crowley’s lapel and gently pulling him close, breathing that smoke between Crowley’s parted lips. Almost touching, breath, warmth, but not skin, not tongues – Crowley urges forward but Cas is too quick for him, fluent from the drink, moving like poetry. He turns his head and breathes out the last tendrils of smoke and Crowley steals his fag back and takes a proper drag, before handing it back again. This time, when Cas leans in, it’s with true intent, eyes growing heavier and mouth softening, and-  
“Hey, Constantine! I think you scored, man!”  
Crowley breaks off, laughing helplessly. The drunk college boy who’s just shouted at them fires them a huge shit-eating grin, makes a cheerful crotch-thrusting gesture and legs it off after his gaggle of swaying buddies.  
Cas flashes Crowley a wonderfully perplexed look. “What is he referring to?  
“I'll tell you later.” Crowley smooths down the lapel of Cas’s trench-coat and that just makes him start to laugh again.  
“No Crowley, tell me now,” Cas insists, as they amble back towards the door of the bar, but Crowley is dissolved in giggles and he needs another drink. Maybe another game of pool. And definitely more smoke breaks before they call this evening a success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much again everyone who's sticking with this, and the people leaving lovely comments, and the people inspiring me for bits to include with their lovely comments! The end bit is for every costume-party Castiel who gets constantly mistaken for Constantine ;)


	10. Written in the wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas gets gainfully employed and Crowley relearns magic, then they give some old friends a telephone call. It goes exactly as could be expected.

At the jingle of keys in the door, Crowley sets his book aside, splayed open pages-down on the wiry carpet. He rubs both hands over his face, arches off the couch in a stretch as Cas appears in the doorway.

The door closing again doesn't block out the sound of distant sirens outside, but it muffles them. Shuts the world out. "Evening, love."

Cas shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the back of one of the chairs. "Technically, it's morning."

"Really? Past midnight?" Crowley moves his feet from the couch, which sinks as Cas sits next to him. "I'd lost track. Hard night at work?"

Cas shakes his head. The shaggy outgrown ends of his hair flick around his ears. "I went for drinks after my shift. With my colleagues."

"Well good for you, poppet." Crowley smiles. "Good night, was it?"

"Yes. I had an enjoyable time."

"But..?"

"No 'but'." It's written there though, clearly in those billboard eyes.

"C'mon, angel. Penny for them."

A sigh. "The Kelly Cleaning operatives are a truly pleasant team of people. It may not be glamourous work but it feels fulfilling, in it's own way."

"Whatever butters your toast, pet. I mean - no, truly. I'm proud of you."

"It's paying the rent."

"I know."

"It is a temporary measure."

"I know, I know. I'm not knocking it."

"It's just..."

"Just?" Crowley prompts. Castiel frowns.

"Dean. And Sam."

"Ah."

"I think of them often. I - we - left without word. I wonder if they pray to me and I’m no longer able to answer. I wonder if they're still alive..."

Crowley fidgets, folds his arms behind his head, propping it up a little on the thin couch cushions. "I'm sure we'd be painfully aware if the world lost itself some Winchesters."

"Would we?"

"So let's call them."

Castiel sighs. "Crowley, we can't. If we make contact through electronic means they'll find a way to track us. I know them. They don't give up."

"Even if you tell them not to come looking?" His answering look is enough. "No, you have a point. You can't exactly send a postcard; I doubt the bunker is listed in the Yellow Pages. Never mind," he addresses Cas's blank look. "Leave it with me." He inclines his head towards his book.

"Research?" Cas says. He's craning his neck to read the title down the spine: 'Now that's what I call chaos magick'.

Crowley nods. Rolls his eyes. "It's like going back to school. Not that I ever went."

"It's bad for books to leave them like that," Cas observes. "Breaks their spines." His lips have just the tiniest smile hovering.

"It's been a while since I've indulged in a good spine-breaking." Cas expels a little snort of laughter, then tries to cover it by looking disapproving. One hands snakes out to rub at the nape of Crowley's neck and he pushes into the touch. "This modern magic, though." Crowley says, "Rituals based around TV shows. I ask you. Where's the gravitas? Where's the majesty? I'd kill for my old library."

"No killing. No snapping spines."

"As if I have it in me anymore."

"You have it in you." It's said as a warning, but Crowley can't help feeling a pleased little thrill. He does. Of course he does. This good behaviour; it's choice, not weakness. He turns his head, kisses the inside of Cas's wrist, _thank you_.

That gets him a smile, a final stroke of his furred cheek as Cas stands. "I'm going to shower."

Crowley nods. Retrieves his book. Wakes with a jolt in what feels like a heartbeat later at a gentle shake to his shoulder. A dim outline in the dark, Castiel, naked and damp-warm, leaning over him. "You dozed off. You can't sleep on the couch. Come to bed." Yawning, back protesting their inadequate furniture, Crowley allows himself to be led.

 

Mastering magic again, when you've had centuries taking great power for granted only to be abruptly rendered as naturally powerless as the average person on the street, is a little like being dumped into a car where all the controls have been moved around. You know how to drive - you're an excellent driver, the very best, you've been driving for years, you have advanced certificates for pity's sake - but suddenly the brake is where the accelerator was and the wiper switch is in the glovebox. It's hands-down the worst thing about being human; even worse than the excruciating obligation to poop. It's a credit to his new-won human patience, Crowley thinks, that he's not stolen a rifle and gone on a rampage due to the frustration he feels at these training wheels on his metaphorical Harley – or perhaps his good behaviour is just Castiel’s fault.  
When Cas is at work, Crowley studies. All his old books are lost and ninety five percent of what he can find in the library and the local esoteric shop is new-age bollocks, although he's ordered some passable literature online. His memory is excellent, but it'll only stretch so far; he never realised before how much he valued his library. A human lesson in appreciation.

Ingredients are a pain in the arse too when you can't send a minion to go fetch, or smoke your way beyond locked doors or to the bottom of the ocean. How the hell do humans get anything done when they can't teleport? Or when they live in a city, for that matter - even fresh dew on grass becomes a Herculean trial to procure in this blank concrete hive.

Right now, Crowley is sitting cross legged on the floor, a notebook full of his elegant, economical handwriting next to him propped open with a lump of quartz. In front of him, a large Tupperware bowl swimming full of watery red, two kitchen knives, some bunches of dried herbs.

“Fratres qui sunt venatores, nunc audite regem.” Crowley peers into the bowl. Gives it a little nudge with the toe of one socked foot. Nothing. He presses his lips together and consults his notebook, moving the impromptu quartz paperweight and leafing through a couple of pages. It’s like being used to speed-dial and then being suddenly expected to remember a phone number by heart: in short, maddening. Replacing the quartz lump, he picks up the bowl and swirls the contents, wrinkling his nose a little. It never used to smell this bad, but then again, he always used to have far superior ingredients at his disposal. “Maybe that’s it,” he mutters under his breath. Picking up one of the knives, he pushes up the sleeve of his black sweater and digs in, hissing a breath in through his teeth at the sting of the blade. A shallow cut in his left forearm yields only a little trickle of blood, but maybe it’s enough. It drops into the bowl, blooming richer petals against the watery base of chicken blood. He swirls the bowl again, stirring with the handle of the knife. Wipes it on his black jeans before tossing it back onto the floor and repeating, a little more forcefully, “Fratres qui sunt venatores, nunc audite regem.” _Something_ happens. It does, he’s prepared to swear. A sort of shiver of the air, a radio static buzz that’s so faint as to be almost imperceptible. Crowley groans in frustration. Leafs through his notes again and frowns, a deep line appearing between his eyebrows. “I hate this. Who am I even talking to? I’m going mad.” He takes a deep breath, concentrates all of his energy into the bowl and says the words quietly, as if there’s anyone else there to bear witness to his excruciating demotion. “Fratres qui sunt venatores, audi amicum.”

“What the- _Crowley_? Crowley, is that _you_?”

“Shit!” Crowley reacts before he’s had time to think it through, kicking over the bowl and scrambling away until his back hits the couch. Dean’s voice still ringing in his ears. He realises that his heart is racing, pulse thudding in his neck, and he lets his head fall back, leaning against the seat of the sofa, still sprawled seated on the floor. A couple of feet away, the contents of the bowl soaks into the ratty carpet. “Well, that works, then.” Crowley says, to nobody but himself.

 

 

The first thing Castiel says when he arrives home from work that evening is, “Crowley, did you spill wine on the carpet?”

“Blood,” Crowley corrects him, and feels a little more pleased than he should do at how wide Cas’s eyes go. “Don’t panic, darling, it was only mine.”

“ _Yours_? What happened? Let me see.”

“Mine and a chicken.” Crowley bats his searching hands away, but the pleased feeling is just growing, revoltingly, at his evident concern.

Castiel stills, brows lowered, looking more irritated than fearful now. “It was a spell? You need to be more careful. We won’t get the room deposit back if you stain the furnishings with poultry blood.”

“You won’t care about the deposit when I show you what I’ve mastered today.”

“Crowley?” Cas lets himself be led by both hands, to sit at the little table under the window, a curious tilt to his head. Crowley sits opposite him. Through the slats of the open blinds, the night-black window reflects their faces in sliced profile. Cas leans up to peer into the plastic bowl set on the table between them. “Another chicken?”

“Gold star to the budgie.”

“Wait-” Cas’s hand lingers on Crowley’s bared arm, as the knife hovers. He strokes a thumb across the still-open cut already there, making Crowley draw a sharp breath, not entirely from pain. “Do you really need to?”

“Huh. The amount of times we’ve beaten the snot out of one another and _this_ bothers you?” Castiel’s eyes narrow, his lips drawing into what’s almost a pout. Crowley says, quietly, “Are you sure you want to go back there?”

“Back where? Crowley, what are you talking about?”

“You wanted to send a telegram to the Chuckle Brothers. Welcome to the Post Office. Fratres qui sunt venatores… audi amicum.”

“Crowley? Who is this, you son of a bitch, _what_ is this?”

“ _Dean_?” There’s a sharp clatter as Castiel’s chair tips over from how fast he stands: both palms braced on the table, he’s staring into the blood-black depths of the bowl. There’s nothing to see, of course, but Crowley can’t keep the grin off his face at the jubilation in Cas’s voice.

“ _Cas_? Cas, is that you? _Is that really you_?”

“Yes, Dean, it’s me.” Somewhere in the background, the buzz of Sam’s voice too, rising a little in pitch but the words unintelligible amidst the collage of urgent babble.

Crowley says, “All of you, slow down and take turns. You’re giving me a headache.”

“Crowley?” Dean says again, sounding halfway between confused and outraged. Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I should have known that this would turn into a chimps’ tea party. Yes, Squirrel, it is I.”

“You’re with Cas?” The dismay in his voice is, if Crowley’s honest, a little hurtful to his new human feelings. To his old demon feelings too, if he’s _brutally_ honest, but he covers it smoothly.

“Ding-ding. Full house.”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts again. He flicks Crowley a purely delighted glance and instantly it’s all worth it, of course it is. Crowley sits back in his creaking chair and folds his arms, smiling smugly. “You and Sam. Are you both alright?”

“Forget me and Sam, how are _you_? _Where_ are you? Cas, you just disappeared, we thought… Rowena’s spell…” A pause, a hasty breath. “We were worried sick, OK? Where’ve you _been_ man?”

Castiel leans forward on the table, steepling his fingers. That frown is back. Maybe it was always the Winchesters’ doing. “Dean, I am sorry. I truly am. The spell made me-” Crowley raises his eyebrows, tips his chin up ever so slightly and Castiel’s frown lines deepen as he gives a little shake of his head. “It made me insane.” Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up. He mouths, _really_ , and Cas waves a hand, _shush_. “Crowley… Crowley helped me.” Crowley nods, _that’s better_ , but Dean’s disembodied voice sounds less than convinced.

“Crowley… _helped_ you? _Crowley_ helped you?”

“Yes. He’s… changed. We have both changed.” Castiel’s hand sneaks across the table, to lie palm-flat on the chipped Formica.

“Cas, I dunno what line he’s fed you, but be careful, OK? Demons don’t change. Especially not Crowley.”

“I’m right here, you know.” Crowley says, at the same time as Castiel says,  
“He’s not a demon.”

“Wait, the what now?”

“I’m not a demon anymore,” Crowley chips in, helpfully. “I hung up my horns. Bye bye bloodshed, so long sin.”

“Cas, don’t listen to him. It’s a trick.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Crowley rolls his eyes, sighing impatiently.

Cas says, “He’s telling the truth, Dean. He’s cured.” His hand on the table-top inches closer and Crowley places his own on top of it, stroking the comforting warmth. “I cured him.”

“You – how? How is that even possible?”

“How many times have you been hit on the head since you released The Darkness?” Crowley leans forward over the bowl of blood. “You know absolutely how, Moose almost managed to mortal me up himself.”

“I know that, dumbass.” Crowley narrows his eyes into the reflective dark surface, as if Dean can see him. “A righteous man. In case you didn’t read the York Notes, Cas is an angel.”

“No Dean, I’m not. Not anymore.”

A pause, then. An audible swallow. His words are angry but his voice is uncertain. “You’re… I’m not hearing this. How? The Darkness? Did Metatron..?”

“It was Crowley,” Cas says.

Crowley throws up his hands, throws Cas a look. “OK, before you pop an artery, he asked me to do it.”

“Nope, I’m done.”

Dean’s voice recedes, shouting incoherently, into the background. Sam, in contrast, sounds slightly apologetic. “Hey, guys.”

“Sam.” The way Cas’s face lights up again: Crowley squeezes his hand where he’s holding it; sentimental, but he can’t help himself.

“So… I guess that’s why you weren’t answering our prayers, then?”

“That would be the reason, yes. I’m sorry, Sam. It was never my intention to cause you both worry. Things just… happened.”

“It’s OK, Cas, it’s OK. You’re safe…” His voice betrays his worry, “you _are_ safe, right?”

“As safe as we can be.”

“It’s been nearly two months, where have you been?”

“Hiding. From Hell. From Heaven. From Crowley’s mother.”

“And you thought that’d be easier to do if you were both human?” Dean again, sounding not a jot calmer than a few moments ago. “Powerless? What gives? I mean – how are you even pulling this radio mojo if you’re both mortal?”

“Mortal, not stupid,” Crowley butts in. There’s the answering sound of a snort.

“So, what, you’re on the run together? You two are besties now, huh?”

“Ah…” The pause hangs. Crowley pulls an awkward face. Cas just looks sort of borderline catatonic.

“Cas? Cas, are you still there?” Dean’s voice echoes in the quiet of the room, “Crowley?”

“This conversation is not going at all how I envisioned it.” Cas says and Crowley is assaulted by a sudden unexpected splutter of laughter that explodes out of him before he can check himself.

This detail evidently does not go unnoticed by Dean. “What the Hell is that meant to mean? Cas?”

“Erm, guys.” Sam says, “This is gonna be a lot easier face to face. Tell us where you are and we’ll come fetch you.”

Another silence. No less awkward. Castiel clears his throat. “I can’t do that, Sam.”

“Why not? You’ll be a heck of a lot safer back here at the bunker with us. Whatever’s happened, whatever you’re hiding from, we can fix it.”

Castiel closes his eyes. Says quietly, “It doesn’t need fixing.” He takes a deep breath. “I – we – wanted to know you were both alright. We wanted to let you know we were safe. But we can’t disclose our location.”

“Why not? Cas, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong.” Cas opens his eyes and meets Crowley’s gaze over the bowl. “For the first time in a long time, nothing is wrong.”

“That’s – good?” Sam’s tone doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s good, but he’ll give it a good try at least.

Dean sounds much, much, less convinced. “I don’t understand. No. Cas, c’mon, buddy – let’s talk this out. So, you’ve lost your juice-”

“I didn’t lose my Grace, Dean. I have it right here. Safe.” Cas’s fingers move to the bottle suspended around his neck, map the shape of it through the soft fabric of his shirt. “This isn’t – this isn’t accident, or coercion. This is choice.”

“So, wait, let me get this straight – you’ve chosen to hole up somewhere for the past six weeks, with Crowley, of all people-”

“Yes. That is correct.”

“…with _Crowley_?” Crowley rolls his eyes.

Castiel’s voice is hesitant, pitching deeper in his discomfort. “It’s been going… very well. Ah. Very. Very well.”

And Crowley can almost _hear_ the penny drop. “Oh. _Oh_ , no.” He stifles a chuckle at the abject horror in Dean’s voice and Cas slaps him lightly on the back of the hand, frowning. “Cas, tell me you don’t mean what I think you mean, because that is… that is not cool…”

Crowley leans forward and tries not to sound too smug. “May I remind you, I’m still right here.”

“And _you_! _You_ -”

“Before you go any further with that particular line of apopleptic ape-man ranting, I’d like to point out that I wasn’t the one who made the first move, it was your angel here who seduced _me_. Well – I say ‘seduced’, it was more-”

“Crowley, shut up.” Cas cuts him off with a glare. “Dean, this is obviously big news.” A strangled sound emanates from somewhere around the vicinity of the bowl, “and we’re going to give you some time for you to adjust to it. I’m closing the connection now. Please don’t look for us. We’ll keep in touch.” Picking up the bowl in both hands, Cas steps around his fallen chair, crosses the room to the little bathroom and tips the contents away with a noise of liquid slopping. There’s the sound of a toilet flush. Crowley stifles a laugh with one hand, composes himself as Cas returns, to right his chair and sink down onto it.

“Well. That went a lot better than I was expecting.” Crowley says.

Cas gives a weak smile, and hides his face behind both palms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much everyone who's reading for sticking with this <3 I've managed to finally kick it into a vague shape, there'll be two more chapters and I promise the next one is all smut and minimal plot ;)


	11. All we ever wanted was everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um. Cas tops from the bottom. Crowley will do anything he says. This is basically EXHAUSTIVE PWP with added extreme fluff THEY ARE SO IN LOVE.

 When he wakes, Cas is there propped on one elbow, watching him, in a way that definitely should be creepy and definitely shouldn’t make him glow at this ungodly early hour. “Did you sleep well?”

"I slept just wonderfully thank you for asking. My compliments to the stone mason responsible for this mattress."

"You snore."  
Crowley lets out an unflattering snort of laughter. "Ugh. How pedestrian."  
"It sounds like you're purring."  
"You're a strange creature, you know that?"  
At what point did they shift from one bed apiece to sharing one of the cramped single motel beds? When Cas became human, and wanted to be held, and Crowley didn’t need to be human to want to hold him close all night… Crowley rolls over so that they’re facing. “Hello, Crowley,” says Cas. He’s all wild hair and half-awake eyes and Crowley feels the ever-reliable twitch of his morning glory at the sight.

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

“Have you now?”

“Mmmm…”

Sleep-warm and languid, his lips parting just so, as Crowley kisses him. Most every morning, now, this. Crowley runs an open palm up the curve of Castiel’s back, feels him arch at the touch, eager already. “So, you’ve been waiting… how do you want me?” Hands. Mouths. Every type of delicious sinful friction. They’ve been busy. Adventurous. _Athletic_. Explored one another in every earthly way, except… Crowley’s hand reaches the nape of Castiel’s neck, moves to caress his cheek, and Cas catches his thumb between gentle teeth and sucks. Crowley’s dick throbs. Something about the intensity of that steady gaze is different today. “Anything. Just name it.” The tongue circling his thumb swirls and Crowley swallows, hard. “Cas?”

“There is something we’ve not yet done.”

“Watersports?” Crowley says, attempts a smile, but Castiel narrows his eyes.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I wasn’t changing the subject. I was being…” Crowley falters. The rise and fall of Castiel’s bare chest beneath the sheets is too distracting, his plush lips too tempting, his eyes too serious and full of determined intent. “That time. The attack spell.” Crowley’s voice is quiet. “Was that your first time?”

“It was my first time with a man.”

Crowley purses his lips. He’s instantly dying to ask who was the woman – _women_? _Ugh_ \- but he doesn’t want to know. Jealousy, he’s learnt quickly, is an emotion you don’t want to feed. “So you’ve never..?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively to complete the question.

“Been… mounted?” Castiel holds his gaze a little too easily – less like he’s flirting or simply has no shame, and more like he really does see nothing unusual in what he’s just said. Crowley makes an involuntary little choking noise that’s part laugh, part moan. “ _Mounted_? What are you, a racehorse?”

“Why, would you like to ride me?”

God. _God_. That shouldn’t work on him – really, it’s lucky Castiel was off the market immediately he became mortal, because with lines like that, being single would have been drier for him than the Sahara... Oh, who’s he kidding? That turn of phrase, that open expression. Crowley always forgets, under the light of sweet blue eyes, that as inexperienced and frequently, bizarrely, oblivious this man may be, he's not obtuse and he's not innocent. And he's certainly not to be underestimated, even if the majestic General who led a Holy War in Heaven still can't quite get his head around how Self Service Checkouts work. Crowley doesn’t even have a snappy comeback. Instead, he slips a hand between the pillow and Castiel’s neck, leaning in and catching his lips. Cas makes a tiny happy noise and opens his mouth, eager, one long leg slipping between Crowley’s, fitting them together like puzzle pieces. “Should I take that as a ‘yes’?” Cas murmurs against the corner of his mouth. He looks absolutely unabashed. Curious. _Ardent_. And Crowley can feel his own eyes widening when he’d much rather they narrowed seductively: stupid vessels, so much harder to control when you’re anchored into them permanently.

“Seeing as you offered so graciously, love, it would be rude of me to decline.”

Another smile, sweet and pleased like Cas is getting his own way rather than offering up something unthinkably rare and priceless, and Crowley is pulled in again, warm lips on his. He’s just hitting his expert stride when Cas whispers hot against his lips, “You need to show me. Just this first time. Teach me. What you enjoy,” and it all comes crashing down again beneath a tide of desire.

It’s too hard to keep it together when he’s batting his eyelashes like a goddamn breathless ingénue: Crowley could half-swear he’s doing it on purpose, wouldn’t put it past this unbearable remarkable mess, but he’s not about to question. "Wait. Stay there. Don't move." He almost trips himself up with the sheets getting out of bed, far too aware of his stiffy waving, cheerfully ridiculous, like an Airdancer outside a car dealership and Cas flashes him a delighted smile like 'where am I going to go, exactly?'  
"You have moisturiser?" He asks with more than a hint of incredulity when Crowley arrives back from the bathroom carrying a tube of Bulldog, which he tosses onto the bed, slipping back beneath the covers to straddle Castiel’s thighs.  
"Since when is it a crime to take care of yourself?" Cas just raises his eyebrows and nods. “For some unfathomable reason I didn’t think to stock up on,” _lube and johnnies_ , “more suitable provisions. I’m a gentleman you know, I didn’t like to presume...” His voice drops the drawling edge of sarcasm. “We can go slowly. I want to…” _Make it perfect for you_. Dear heaven, when did he get so mawkish?  
"How do you… usually..? I -"  
Crowley cuts him off before he can get any more candid; Cas's lingering lack of (tact, his head says) embarrassment is usually entertaining but now doesn't feel like the time and the last thing he wants to think about is previous encounters, all faded to inconsequential grey in his pre-human memory. 'Any way I can get it,' pops unbidden into Crowley's mind, but what he says is "Any way you want it," and he realises he means it. "We don't have to. I mean, I want to – _oh_ I want to - but I'm quite happy with a rerun of last time. If you'd rather… drive."  
"Without the lust spell."  
"That goes without saying."

“I’d rather you take control this time.” Then, “Please,” Castiel adds, his eyebrows drawing gently, briefly together, like he’s remembered he always forgets that little human detail when asking for something he wants.

 _Take control_. _Please_. The words insinuate themselves into Crowley’s head with a hot shiver that pools all the way down to his crotch. They’ve been together over six weeks now. They’ve clocked up more couch time than a whole high-school-worth of horny teenagers faking study, brought one another to more shuddering, prematurely human climaxes than Crowley can now count, but they’ve still not done this yet.

“We don’t have any…” Cas cocks his head to one side and it gives him the illusion of such innocence that Crowley’s mouth goes dry and he can almost believe he dreamed every divine, dirty fumble they’ve indulged in during their escape to anonymity. “…protection.” He finishes, weakly. Castiel’s fingertips gently trace the lines of angelic script curving around his ribs, linger on his own name etched there, and Crowley shudders the length of his whole body. “Condoms,” he clarifies, bluntly.

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Those graceful fingers continue to stroke, moving lower. “Is that necessary? In a committed relationship?”

“I guess…” _I’m actually not sure, I’ve never been in one before._

Castiel looks thoughtful. Sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and then lets it go, plump and shiny with spit and something essential in Crowley’s brain is about to go fizz, he’s sure of it.

“Host vessels are immune to disease.”

“That’s true.”

“You haven’t engaged in sexual acts with anybody else since you became human.”

“You raise a very compelling argument, angel.”

“I would really very much like for you to engage in sexual acts with me.”

“When you put it like that…”

“ _Please_ ,” Castiel adds, ever polite now. His eyelids are heavy, breathing too, low and steady, his fingers skimming Crowley’s hips. He licks his lips. “Please… mount me.”

“Bloody hell.” It’s like Castiel is testing out a new language, the words foreign on his tongue: Crowley’s never heard him even attempt to talk dirty before, certainly not like this, his voice soft and ragged, provocative and imploring at once, trying this new enchantment on for size. Crowley squeezes his eyes shut for a second, swallows, his head spinning. Beneath him, an impatient little roll of hips, Castiel trying to spread his thighs whilst Crowley is still straddling them. Crowley readjusts, slides first one and then the second knee between Cas’s legs, which wind immediately around his waist and, oh my… “Say that again.” He opens his eyes. Beneath him, Cas has a self-conscious blush burning across his broad cheekbones, as if this man who’ll quite calmly ask for a definition of bukkake in the middle of a crowded street knows quite well that this is no longer remotely academic.

“Say what again?”

 _Oh, that’s how it’s going to be_. Crowley leans down, elbows either side of that ruffled dark head, trapping him there, purring into his ear, breath stirring against the warm skin of his neck. “Mount me. _Fuck me_.” Castiel whines, an overheated little desperate sound, hips lifting but not quite high enough to connect where Crowley is kneeling over him. “Ask nicely, angel. Tell me what you want.”

Panting, breathless already, voice a low buzz. “Yes… please, I want you to… make me… take me … _please_ … _Crowley_.” A shiver skates across Crowley’s skin as if he’s been caressed, something plummeting inside. And Cas’s voice rises on Crowley’s name, betraying the first touch of frustration.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” Crowley murmurs again, hot against Castiel’s ear, “I want to hear you say it,” and Cas draws a hitching breath, nails digging into Crowley’s back, flushed lips forming the shapes without sound: Cas has never had a way with words; perhaps it’s cruel to expect him to articulate when his cock is already jerking, swollen, damping the soft line of hair that trails down his belly darker just beneath his navel. Crowley lowers his head to lick there, a wet trail, nosing Cas’s shaft gently to one side – that earns him a moan of frustration – planting a track of kisses across the gentle curve of his belly where a penchant for white bread and churros is already leaving its mark on his mortal coil… perhaps Crowley should warn him about that, but God help him, he likes it. There’s nothing he _doesn’t_ like about this man. The way the smooth pale olive skin of his chest, his biceps, fades into golden tan now on his forearms and neck, liberated from his formal suit for a month of sunny days. The way the tendons stand in the elegant lines of his neck, turned sharply to one side now, mouth slack and gasping against the pillow. Cas’s fingertips dig into the place where Crowley’s neck and shoulders meet, half massaging, half urging him towards his cock like the pleasure-greedy creature he’s become. Not today, though – as much as he wants to taste him. Crowley turns his head, burying his nose in the fragrant curls at the base of Castiel’s shaft, flat of his tongue lapping broad strokes across his balls and Cas breathes out a little groan and shifts his legs wider. Responsive. Hungry. Crowley runs his thumbs up the inside of Cas’s thighs, follows the soft crease of his groin and Cas exhales a long shaky breath and draws his knees up and out… what a sight. It’d be easier if he lay face down, but Crowley wants to be able to look up and see his face and Cas doesn’t seem to be complaining as he shifts and moans, trying to spread his thighs even wider under the attention of Crowley’s deft hands, parting his cheeks, exposing him fully. One long swift lick with the flat of his tongue and Cas bucks with a cry. Crowley’s smile is hidden, down there, breathing in the dark heavy scent of him. Point of his silver-tongue circling, teasing, then plunging, broad hands holding Castiel’s stuttering hips still as Cas’s fingers claw at the sheets to either side of them.

It feels like a long time. It _is_ a long time. He’s delicious, and melting under Crowley’s intimate affection. Already that tight little hole is softening, pink and wet and twitching beneath Crowley’s relentless tongue that slips in and out easily now as Cas moans, clenches and unclenches his toes. His cock is twitching too, but there’s nothing soft about that. Crowley laves a final decadent lap of his tongue, from Cas’s arsehole right up to the base of his cock, feels fingers scrub through the short hair at the nape of his neck. His cue. When he crawls back up the bed, Cas’s kiss is sloppy, desperate, burning. “ _Now_.”

“Not yet,” Crowley licks delicately at his mouth, pecks little kisses to his throat, but there’s no delaying him. The heel of a palm on Crowley’s dick and Crowley is groaning into Cas’s shoulder, hips disobeying him completely. When he’s rough, it makes Crowley want to _bite_ , to roll that salt-sweet flesh between his teeth, and that’s not what he should be doing now. _Not so urgent_. “Love, slow down.” He’s answered with what’s almost a growl, a deep rumble that twists him up inside, Cas’s hand at his hip, dragging them flush so their erections rut together, slick with arousal. Then Castiel hooks a leg over Crowley’s thigh, shunting forward so Crowley’s dick slides easy in the spit-wet cleft of his arse and Crowley’s head spins like he might actually faint, feeling the head of his own cock rubbing over, catching at that hot wet clench as Castiel presses back against him, encouraging, coaxing… “Not yet…”

“ _Do it_.” His voice is roots-deep, rough. It doesn’t sound like begging: it sounds like command. Crowley swallows, thickly, another wild hit of desire jacking through him, dizzying. It’d be so easy to oblige, but that wouldn’t be taking _control_ , now would it?

Crowley’s forceful when he grabs Cas’s waist, pushes him off, pinning his hips to the mattress. The Angel Castiel could have his way with him easily, but Crowley can overpower the human version almost without effort, even if he wasn’t so rapturously complicit. And Crowley holds him down, leaning in and teasing with the promise of his lips, only to pull out of range as Cas’s mouth chases his, blind desire, and he struggles beneath Crowley’s weight, arching off the bed, needy demanding noises until Crowley gives him what he craves. Their kisses turn fierce, struggling for advantage, Cas bowing beneath him. And Crowley finds the tube of moisturiser amongst the sheets, squeezes out far too much in his haste, and presses a hand between Cas’s legs. Sudden as a shot, Cas’s whole body draws tight, a shuddering breath escaping him. One palm wraps around his own cock, manages a few frantic strokes before Crowley pulls Cas’s hand firmly away. Crowley’s other hand is circling a middle finger, up to the first knuckle, in tight, slippery heat. Castiel cants his hips, wordlessly wanting, so Crowley pushes, slipping second-knuckle deep with no resistance. Castiel gasps. One hand grabs Crowley around his wrist, holding his hand in place, urging his finger deeper as Cas grinds down on it. The flush across his chest has climbed his neck, fanned out across his cheekbones. The bright narrow lights of his eyes that Crowley can see between lowered lashes are glazed, drunk-looking. Crowley twists his hand, spreading the slickness, adds another finger, stretching, and Castiel moans like a gin-house hooker. Crowley bites his lip. He wants to kiss him, he wants to kiss him forever, but he can’t kiss him and look at him at the same time. Cas watches him, watches Crowley’s face, like he’s gazing at a miracle, shallow little breaths fluttering his chest: Crowley’s sure he can see his goddamn heartbeat. He works his fingers slowly, in and out, in and out. Adds a third, spreading as carefully as he can, as Castiel brings his legs up and wraps them around Crowley’s waist. He’s open now, open for him, loose and slippery and hot and desperate and… Crowley feels like he’s choking on it. This suffusing _need_. “ _Now_ ,” says Cas again, and this time it’s not commanding or begging, it’s... it is…

The thick head of Crowley’s dick finds the spot, that precious heat. He presses inside.

Crowley thought he knew pleasures of the flesh. Had believed himself a connoisseur, revelling in depravity. There's nothing he's not done and, damn it, enjoyed - no regrets, not one. But _this_. _This_. It's not merely being human, it can't be, _this_ cannot be what that unremarkable little race of apes have been hiding all along, no: nobody in the history of time can possibly ever have felt like this. The slightest movement raises every hair on his body to shivering, blissful attention. He’s only a couple of inches inside, fighting so much for control, tiny shallow circling thrusts, this insatiate, consuming feeling threatening to swallow him whole.

“You’re…” Castiel is gasping, panting, “…big.” His head, thrown back, shoulders tight against the sweat-soaked sheets, he’s gulping in great lungfuls of air and holding them, as if he’s afraid to move.

“Shhh… sweetheart…” Lord, but he wants to sink forward, fill him to breaking, lose himself in that gorgeous body. “Too much?”

“ _No_.” Hands around his biceps when he eases out just a little. “Don’t.” The hands move to his hips, grasping at his arse, pulling him closer again, and Crowley bites down on a groan. “More, please, _please_.” He whispers it, a litany of lust-stoned pleading, “Please, _yes_ … deeper, _yes_.”

“ _Cas_ …” Crowley rocks his hips, as gentle as he can manage for the building need inside him, inching in, teeth gritted at the delicious sinful cinch of him. The long legs wrapped around his waist are starting to falter lower, muscles trembling; Crowley re-hoists them, over his shoulders – salt-slip of sweat collecting in the tender creases behind Cas’s knees, damping the hair on his shins into little springing curls – and Cas moans low in his throat. It’s easier at this angle, for Crowley – although he’s sure from Cas’s rapt tormented face that it must be almost too much sensation for him. Palms planted either side of the pillows, Crowley leans forward, rolling his hips, easing finally, finally, fully inside him. It’s enough to take his breath, so he leans down, further, folding them together, stealing back some breath from Cas’s panting mouth; that mouth that catches his lips in starving plunder.

And Cas is musical in his debauchery. So noisy that Crowley isn’t sure if he hopes more that the occupants of the neighbouring rooms are out or in. Incoherent moaning, constant, loud, every slow deep thrust forcing a beautiful new note of blissed-out surrender from Castiel’s swollen lips, centuries of stoic angelic restraint crashing down, sand before a raging tide. His hands clench and unclench against the sheets, come up to press against Crowley’s broad chest, against his pounding heartbeat, fingers faltering, weak with pleasure, his head rocking against the pillows with each thrust. “Touch yourself for me,” Crowley whispers. Cas’s rigid cock is trapped between them, but that friction alone probably isn’t enough to get him off. One long hand wraps around it, strokes, and Castiel groans, a low moan of gratification and desire and frustration, before both hands are above his head again, fingers curled limp and useless and overwhelmed, barely able to move. His eyelids flutter, eyes rolling back, as Crowley doesn’t falter in his rhythm. His angel, broken by pleasure. Crowley bites back a groan, skin crawling, tightening, that low heavy pressure building. Their panting breaths almost drown out the slick intimate slap of flesh meeting flesh. Balancing on one hand, he reaches down between them and fits Cas’s cock into his fist. Cas makes a critical noise, a hitching gasp, his hips lifting, driving Crowley deeper inside him. Hot, impossibly hard in his hand – Crowley strokes once, twice, thumb slipping over the dripping head of him and Cas’s whole body clenches, shuddering, as he spills, warm, then shoots, over Crowley’s fist and his own chest and the pillow beside his head. The noise he makes – the wrenching, jubilant cry of completion – Crowley almost stills, bears down, deep and hard as he can, feeling that perfect body clutch around him, tight and welcoming. This feeling, it steals his breath, his strength. Cas’s legs start to slip again, shaking, and Crowley gathers him back up, so close, draws out just a little and feels the spent twitch of him, over-sensitive whimper as he presses back in, pulls out, further, harder, chasing that burning goal until suddenly he’s pounding, like running down a hill too quickly, unwilling and unable to stop and his climax hits him like jumping out into nothing, weightless and enraptured and sublime.  
  
_Everyone thinks they invented love._  
"I think I get it now." Crowley manages, breathlessly. He’s dismounted, awkwardly, both of them loose limbed and clumsy in the wake of it, lying side by side. His heart is hammering, a steady, blood-pounding thud-thud-thud that feels like the universe thrumming, a buzzing numb warmth in his fingers and toes and inside his mouth. Next to him, Castiel exhales a little laugh and when Crowley turns his head, he’s gazing, glassy eyed and stunned looking, at the ceiling, the widest brimming grin plastered to his face. Crowley reaches out, touches his jaw, turning Cas’s face gently towards him. Blue eyes focus. _Joy_. They’re so close Crowley can vaguely see himself reflected in Cas’s pupils. He feels the same inane, ecstatic grin spread its way onto his own mug. Shifting up on the pillows, he insinuates an arm out and Cas, like instinct, ducks beneath it, settles his head against Crowley’s chest with a sigh that sounds very like contentment.

It turns out that Castiel is a lot better at pillow talk than whispered filth. “Your heart is very loud.”

“That’s your fault,” Crowley murmurs. Feels the answering smile stir the hair on his chest.

“We should stay here. Forever.”

“What if I need a wee?”

A surprise jolt of laughter escapes him as Castiel prods him, right in the ticklish bit of his waist. “Not in this bed. In this neighbourhood. I like it here. It is…” He pauses, and Crowley listens to him searching for the word; his soft breaths, like he can almost hear those cogs turning in his mind. “Homely.” Cas decides.

Crowley scratches his chin on the top of Cas’s head, then drops a kiss there. “We’ll need to move around. Every ten years. So we’re not recognised.”

“Crowley, we’re human now. We’ll age.”

“Bollocks to that! I’m – what, how old now? How many miles does this thing even have on the clock?”

“This _thing_ ,” Castiel sounds amused. One elegant hand slides across the curve of his gut, follows where his waist dips in and up across his ribs, comes to rest on the thick muscle of his shoulder. “Your _body_?” Crowley grimaces at the term; he still can’t help it. “I’d say… 55?”

The smirk is very noticeable in his tone. Crowley smiles, reluctantly, and rolls his eyes. “Your ‘sense of humour,’” Cas’s head, still resting against his chest, bobs when Crowley forms the air quotes Cas is still, perturbingly, so fond of, “is not improving, choirboy. Sod that lark though, I’ve a spell that’ll stop us ageing.”

“I don’t want it.”

The speed and seriousness of his reply is enough to make Crowley crane his head to read his expression. “Why on earth not?”

“I want…” Castiel bites his lip, searching for the words again. “We can grow old. Together.”

It’s like pain, this joy. This feeling of wanting to make this moment last, to preserve it into an eternity. But that’s what makes perfection perfect: its fleeting nature. Cling onto a delicate thing too hard and you crush it. Crowley swallows the tightness in his throat. “One day, pet. But after everything I’ve seen, one human lifetime isn’t enough time with you. Grant me that?”

“OK.”

“OK?” As simple as that. The dark head resting against his chest moves, caressing, the scratch of grown-out stubble on his skin as Cas rubs his cheek against him, angles to press a lingering kiss beneath his collar-bone. “Is that… you agreeing to spend more than a lifetime with me?”

“Forever. I understand that’s the usual appropriate allotted amount of time to wish to spend with the one you love.”

“The one you..?”

“Love.” Castiel finishes for him. “You. I love you.” His tone grows suddenly anxious and he raises his head, regarding Crowley with solemn eyes. “Have I got that wrong?”

“No,” Crowley says. “No, love. You’ve got that absolutely right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much it for this one now... just a little epilogue to go because I do like epilogues. Thank you so much for everyone who's read and extra special helpings of ~I love you, you're wonderful~ to everyone who's left such encouraging comments.


	12. Wake up my lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little epilogue. More in chapter notes at the end.

"Guess what I found?" Crowley says. Castiel looks up when he enters the room, shifts with a muted creak of leather from the overstuffed chesterfield. "Remember?"

"I remember clearly. That terrible mattress." Cas takes the offered key, runs fingertips over the embossed '27' on the scratched plastic fob. A smile tugs at his lips. "You stole the room key?"

"Of course I did." Cas chuckles. The couch creaks louder as Crowley settles down next to him, moves a tapestry cushion into his lap. "Hey. Guess who won the lotto again?"

Castiel is still smiling, open MacBook on his lap forgotten. "You shouldn't do that you know. It's dishonest."

"Dishonest, schmonest. It's adroit. Any fool could hone magic skills enough to do it, people just don't try. Anyway it's not like I play the big ones..."

"I know."

"Am I absolved?" Crowley tilts his head, eyes creasing. "What if I buy you dinner tomorrow night?"

"You are forgiven." Castiel turns his attention back to the screen, "...I still require dinner."

Crowley rests his chin against Cas's shoulder as he reads the screen. "This the Keane case?" He pushes a dark lock of hair out of his face where it's tickling his nose, ends up with one hand buried in the long thick curls at Cas's nape.

Cas leans his head back into Crowley's touch. Rubs his eyes with his knuckles, yawning. "Yes. A whole folder of dead ends."

Crowley grunts."It's starting to look dodgy. I vote we pass it on to the Hardy Boys."

"Ok. I'll call Dean." Cas stifles another yawn. 

"Now? You look beat."

"Too much research and not enough action will do that to you."

"Then it'll wait til morning. And if you're looking for some action..." He wriggles his eyebrows and Cas laughs, softly. He closes the laptop lid. "You fancy a drink?" A shake of the head. "Cocoa and cookies?" Cas gives another quiet huff of amusement. Leans in to press a lingering kiss on Crowley's lips. Crowley's eyelids slide shut; he can't help it. Breathes in his scent of fabric softener. Iron and rain.

"Just bed, for me."

Crowley dodges for one last goodnight peck. Says, "Alright. I'll follow you up. Be half an hour, tops."

"You've still not found your spell?"

"Nope. Amazing the amount of crap you accumulate in five years."

Castiel spins the key fob on the end of a finger. "It's not crap. It's memories."

All Crowley can do is nod; he can't utter a word to deny that. "All I know is, it's written on a napkin and it could be anywhere. Although I'm fairly certain it's in the same box I found that in."

"The motel box."

"The motel box," Crowley agrees.

"Don't stay up too late. I'll help you look tomorrow." Cas gives Crowley's shoulder a squeeze through his tartan dressing gown. The door clicks quietly shut. The second stair tread creaks. And Crowley raises his voice a little and calls, "Night, love."

"Goodnight, Crowley." Cas calls back.

Crowley smiles.

 

 

THE END 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is really short but yeah basically cheesy af long-term happiness (and Cas with long hair because I'm disgustingly self indulgent and require it for reasons). Happy ever after for ever and ever!
> 
> As a follow-on I recommend Dusty_Forgotten’s ongoing domestic witchcraft AU ‘Grey’ here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5134061 
> 
> Also scarrd-wings at Tumblr’s gorgeous artwork that absolutely brings this whatever-this-is I just wrote to mind: https://56.media.tumblr.com/e8e8e4d621927d4e846c835229e96d36/tumblr_o0ibnpUvON1txn5dao1_1280.png
> 
> And finally, this Nick Cave song which kinda started it all... well, just read the lyrics I guess. And thank you again for reading this fic :)
> 
> “Wake up my lover with the long tangled hair  
> Wake up for I have arrived  
> My house is in order and I've done to me  
> All the things that you said you require
> 
> Your fearless little man  
> Has abandoned all his plans  
> That crumbled the moment that I kissed you
> 
> On your small, hot mouth  
> And your downy, brown limbs  
> Which are hymns to the glory that is you
> 
> Wake up my lover with the restless hands  
> That open and close as you sleep  
> I cut myself away from all the shackles and chains  
> Now I'm free, but I'm shaky and weak
> 
> I long to be beside you  
> I long to be beside you  
> Make me feel what's going down isn't wrong
> 
> Open your eyes and tell me  
> That you will stay with me  
> Before it really hits me just what I've done
> 
> You say love is like a fire - well, no it ain't  
> It ain't like any fire I know  
> You say love is forever - well, ain't that quaint  
> Love's forever and then it up and goes
> 
> So wake up my lover with the caramel skin  
> I need to disabuse me of all my fears  
> The accusations, recriminations, the weeping, and the pleading  
> Are still ringing in my ears
> 
> Wake up my lover with the curious smile  
> That plays on your mouth while you dream  
> I need to be near you again, I need to hear from you again  
> Tell me we are right and holy and clean” 
> 
> \- (Nick Cave)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer for chapter 1: I have never been to Jordan and have next to zero knowledge of their customs and laws and do not pretend to; this is all absolutely 100% fiction from my fandom-corrupted brain. That said, whilst I’ve heard extensively from my friend who lives there that it really ain’t the most LGBT progressive place to be, they do not currently enforce the death penalty for any form of ‘sexual deviance’ (although there is a penalty of death by hanging for crimes such as treason, terrorism, drug trafficking and murder.) You can, however, apparently still be executed in Saudi Arabia for both ‘sexual deviance’ and ‘sorcery’ so Crowley would be pretty screwed if he slipped up over there.


End file.
